


If I Must Starve (Let it be in Your Arms)

by Igneum807



Series: If We Must Starve (Let it be Together) [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel needs a hug, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier gets allll the witchers, Lambert needs a hug, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:08:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Igneum807/pseuds/Igneum807
Summary: The witchers of Kaer Morhen have never been comfortable with gentle touches. It just isn't who they are. But when Geralt arrives to spend the winter with his brothers looking more relaxed than any of them have felt in years, all due to the affection of a human bard, Lambert and Eskel grow curious. They wonder what it would be like to be touched or held without fear.When Lambert runs into Jaskier in a small town in Redania, it's the safest he's felt in years. He and his brothers need touch and kindness more than they're willing to admit, and all Jaskier wants it tohelp, if only the witchers would let him.Geralt and Jaskier are together, all the other relationships are platonic with a good helping of touch-starvation on the side.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: If We Must Starve (Let it be Together) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706485
Comments: 1124
Kudos: 5684
Collections: Ashes' Library, Best Geralt, Fics I Want to Linger On, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, Just.... So cute...





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier is being watched. He isn’t sure why, and he isn’t sure by who, but decades spent traveling with Geralt have instilled in him both the ability to tell when someone is watching him and a healthy dose of paranoia. Jaskier has been on the receiving end of some monster’s murderous glare too many times to count. He knows how it feels.

This, though, feels different. It’s less of a murderous glare and more of a curious eye. He feels it on his back as he struts around town, buying bread with the coin from last night’s performance and winking at every fine lady in town. Which is to say, all of them. Jaskier certainly isn’t picky. 

He thinks the watchful eye might be a fan, or perhaps some woman entranced by his lovely songs. At least, that’s what he hopes. Jaskier hasn’t been this far into Redania in some time, or ever, really, so there aren’t any jilted husbands nearby out for his blood. Besides, he has a good thing going with Geralt. He hasn’t cuckolded any husbands for a few years now. 

The thing is, he doesn’t mind the staring. It’s just that Geralt isn’t with him at the moment. Jaskier’s witcher is off in Kaedwen somewhere, knocking together monster skulls and sulking in corners no doubt, and he isn’t due to meet up with Jaskier for another two weeks. Jaskier isn’t a _coward_ , thank you very much, no sir, not him, but, well, having a big, scary witcher at his back is usually good for warding off things like mysterious stares. 

The feeling goes away when he’s anywhere private, or when he’s performing for the good people of the local inn. Anywhere he might have a decent shot at actually _catching_ whoever is drilling holes in the back of Jaskier’s skull, the staring stops. It’s been a week now, and Jaskier is starting to feel well and truly _put out_ about the whole thing. 

He wears out his welcome at the inn eventually. The coins run dry and the innkeeper throws him out with little ceremony, so Jaskier slings his lute around his back and sets off to the next town, expecting his little “admirer” to disappear as soon as he leaves. He waits for the prickly feeling on the back of his neck to fade away. 

It doesn’t. 

Muscle memory keeps his fingers strumming at his lute as he walks, but Jaskier’s mind is focused on the weight of watchful eyes that hangs so heavy on his shoulders. He lets it stay there for as long as he can stand, which isn’t all that long. A quick glance behind him shows no one, and the road ahead of him is similarly empty. That leaves only the woods to either side of him. He thinks, very briefly, of wandering into the woods to look for whatever it is that’s following him, but a memory from a week ago stops him short. 

He and Geralt spent the past winter in Kaedwen- Geralt in Kaer Morhen with the other witchers and Jaskier in various towns at the foot of the mountains. When the thaw came, the two of them spent all Jaskier’s hard earned coin on a room at an inn with large beds and made love as much and in as many positions as either man could stand. (And Jaskier can stand _a lot._ ) They parted ways with soft words and promises to see each other soon, before Geralt, in his typical gruff fashion, said, “Stay away from monsters, Jaskier. I don’t care how good the story is. I’ll be fucking angry if you die.”

A romantic for the ages, that one. 

Jaskier, for his part, did not think that the thing watching him so closely would kill him. But Geralt would probably not count “wandering into a dark forest alone” as “staying away from monsters,” and will likely get angry about it when Jaskier tells him even if Jaskier doesn’t die. So chasing the thing is a no-go. 

Instead, Jaskier simply stops walking. He plucks out a cheery little tune on his lute, stock still in the middle of the road, and whips up a brilliant smile. 

“You can come out now, oh mysterious watcher,” he calls to the forest around him. “I don’t bite, you know. Unless you are a beautiful maiden, and even then I only bite if you ask nicely.” Jaskier winks towards the trees and wonders idly what vague, disapproving sound Geralt would make at him in that moment for acting like such a fool. 

The forest does not answer him. 

“Oh, come on. _Please?_ I’m absolutely up to my ears in curiosity now. You simply must come out and say hello so I can stop wondering so much. Don’t be ashamed about me figuring you out! I’m flattered, really. It’s not every day a bard picks up his own secret admirer, even if you have a rather odd way of showing it.”

Finally, a low chuckle comes from Jaskier’s left. He whips his head around to stare at the man who steps from behind the trees. 

His steps are silent, even on the ground that’s covered in a thin spring frost. With shoulders and biceps to rival Geralt’s (though not better than Geralt’s, because nobody is that gorgeous), the man looks dangerous. When Jaskier’s eye catches on the silver wolf pendant around his neck, he lets out a suitably dramatic gasp and presses one hand to his chest. “A _witcher?_ My, I am lucky.”

The man laughs again, louder now, and says, “You are just as Geralt describes you.”

Jaskier shoots him a blinding grin. “Of course, dear witcher. My Geralt is a man of few words- he rarely wastes them on falsehoods. Although I would _love_ to hear what he’s been saying about me. Did he tell you how I sing like an angel? That I’m as beautiful as an incubus? His trusty, humble bard that he could never live without?”

“He said you talk a lot.”

Jaskier can practically see Geralt saying it- his smile hidden by a mug of ale while he prods Jaskier with little insults that he doesn’t fully mean. The idea of him doing the same with other witchers around sets Jaskier’s head spinning with satisfaction. 

“Well,” he says, collecting himself, “I suppose there’s no accounting for taste. Tell me, when did you last see this oh-so complimentary partner of mine?”

The witcher steps out onto the road to stand next to Jaskier. Daggers glint on his belt, bright and deadly in the morning sun, but Jaskier is long past fearing witchers and their weapons. They may not all be as lovely as his White Wolf, but they only kill humans who really, really deserve it. The worst thing Jaskier has ever done is wish death upon Valdo Marx that one time, and that didn’t even work. 

“I spent this past winter with him in Kaer Morhen.”

“Ah! You’re not Vesemir, I assume. Geralt told me he stays at the castle. You must be… Lambert, then? Or Eskel?”

“Lambert,” the man says, and Jaskier reaches out to shake his hand. Lambert takes it, slow and cautious. It reminds Jaskier, a little unpleasantly, of the first few years he traveled with Geralt when every minor touch or point of contact was an uncertainty. He’s taught his witcher much since then, but washing away decades of touch starvation, loneliness, and mistrust is something they are still working on in their relationship. 

“Lovely to meet you, Lambert. Really, quite a pleasure. What brings you to my neck of the woods this morning, my friend? Other than my singing, which, in case Geralt didn’t tell you, is fantastic.”

Lambert tilts his head and stares into Jaskier’s eyes for a long time. If it is meant to intimidate the bard, it doesn’t work. Jaskier meets the witcher’s look calmly, the smile still tugging at his lips. After a minute, Lambert looks away with a grunt, satisfied with what he found in Jaskier’s gaze. 

“Curiosity,” he answers. “I heard a lot about you this winter, so when I finished up a job nearby and learned you were here I decided to come meet you.”

Jaskier crushes down his sudden need to know what, exactly Lambert _heard a lot about_ from Geralt, and goes for levity instead. 

“That was quite verbose, for a witcher,” he jokes. Something warm and happy settles in his gut when Lambert laughs. 

“We aren’t all like Geralt.” 

“No,” Jaskier agrees. “I don’t think there is anyone on the Continent quite like Geralt.” 

Lambert eyes him strangely after he says that. Jaskier can’t place the emotion there. Confusion? Constipation? He can read Geralt quite well after so many years, but Lambert is a whole new level of inscrutable.

The witcher clears his throat. “Where are you going now?”

“The next town over. I’ve heard one of the village elders is a master musician, so I’m off to see how well he measures up against Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, and bard extraordinaire!” Jaskier plays a loud chord to emphasize his seriousness and turns down the road, tilting his body to encourage Lambert to follow him. “Are you heading that way as well?”

“I am. I hear they have a drowner problem, and the nearby Lord has full coffers.” 

Jaskier grins. “Fantastic. We can head there together.” He leans over to add a dramatic wink. “I have been told that I am an excellent traveling companion.”

Lambert falls into step with him, and Jaskier fights the urge to start firing questions at him. He loves Geralt, really he does, but he is _dying_ to learn more about the new witcher who has so easily stepped into his life. Geralt had described Lambert as a brother more than once. As far as Jaskier knows, Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir are the closest thing Geralt has to a family. Jaskier had wanted to meet them all for years, and now destiny has thrown an opportunity right at his feet. 

There are so many things he wants to know. So much he wants to ask about. But deeply personal questions would take time, and maybe a few mugs of ale, to start asking. Jaskier holds his tongue on that for now, and lets other questions bubble out of him. He is still a bard, after all, and Lambert’s stories of monsters and maidens would make ballads as fine as Geralt’s. Maybe _this_ witcher won’t be as stingy with the details. 

So Jaskier leans in close and asks, “Have you ever seen a chimaera?”

…

_It’s winter in Kaer Morhen, and Lambert is the last to arrive. His brothers welcome him to the ancient halls with open arms and the smiles of people who have not seen each other in far too long._

_“Took you long enough,” Eskel teases him. “We nearly drank all the ale without you.”_

_Lambert laughs and aims a punch to his brother’s shoulder that ends in a brief, dirty wrestling match on the floor. He lands a blow on Eskel’s sternum and gets a knee in the gut for his troubles, yet when it ends they’re both grinning like little boys again._

_Geralt watches from the sidelines. The lines of his body are still hard and tough, but there is a soft smile pulling at the edge of his mouth that wasn’t there a few winters ago. Lambert decides to ask about it later. Until then, he lets his mind ease into the simple pleasures of good food, good ale, and the comfort of company that does not fear him for what he is._

_It is several weeks before Lambert finds a time to talk to the two of them. To really talk, not just joke and posture like they always do. He’s been paying attention, see, and something about Geralt is…different. Softer. He still wields a sword like every monster’s worst nightmare, but the edges of him aren’t as rough anymore, and Lambert has been cataloguing the differences._

_Geralt smiles more than before. His hair is pulled into the same half-up, half-down style that he has preferred for years, but it doesn’t look as course or weather beaten as usual. It looks light and well taken care of. His armor, too, is the kind of clean that witchers never bother to make things. Why spend all night cleaning something that’s just going to get doused in blood again the next day?_

_Lambert can’t make sense of the changes in Geralt. All he knows is that, sometimes, when he’s weak, he looks at his brother’s well-kept hair and wishes he had someone to do that for him. He wishes and longs and aches for gentle fingers on his skin without the smell of fear in his nose._

_He makes sure Geralt and Eskel are both at least two mugs of ale into the night before bringing up anything personal. There’s a pint warming Lambert’s belly as well- making him just brave enough to let the questions of his mind spill past his lips._

_“When did you turn into such a neat freak, Geralt?”_

_Geralt, ever the stoic type, just shoots Lambert a questioning glare over the rim of his cup._

_“The armor?” he presses. “The hair? Gods above, Geralt, you look almost… tidy. When did that become important to you?”_

_A grunt, and then, “It’s not.”_

_Eskel cuts in. “Then why all the…?” he trails off, gesturing at how relaxed Geralt looks. It’s a mocking, taunting contrast to the tension that runs under Lambert’s skin every day._

_“Jaskier,” Geralt says._

_“Jaskier?” Lambert echoes. “That bard you travel with? What does he have to do with this?” He’s pushing, he knows he’s pushing, but the ache in Lambert’s body won’t allow him to let it go._

_Geralt just growls in response. “Fuck off, Lambert.”_

_It’s the wrong thing to say. Any suspicions Lambert had might have been brushed away with a little explanation, but Geralt is digging in his heels. Two can play at that game._

_“I mean it. You’re different, Geralt.” Lambert is sure that the longing, the jealousy in his voice must be showing through, but he keeps going anyway. “You’re more relaxed than I’ve ever seen you, you’re actually smiling instead of just glaring at everyone- you’re walking the Path with a human for fuck’s sake! What changed?”_

_Geralt slams down his mug and levels a stare at Lambert that could make a feral striga beg for mercy. “I got tired of the pain,” he says, and walks away._

...

Wrenching his mind out of the past, Lambert focuses on the bard walking beside him. He’s chattering away about some lady or another in a town to the south of them, but Lambert is hardly listening. His attention is held by Jaskier’s smell. It’s happiness, contentment, and relaxation all swept up into one; so different from the human scents Lambert is used to. Never before has he walked beside someone other than another witcher without the acrid burn of fear in his nose.

Lambert lets the smell wrap around him as he listens to the gentle lilt of Jaskier’s voice. The bard touches his shoulder in excitement once or twice, and it’s all Lambert can do not to lean into the touch and shut his eyes. 

The plan he came up with during those long winter nights in Kaer Morhen is silly, he knows. It’s silly, and pathetic, and desperate, but here, slowly letting himself relax with this gentle, fearless bard at his side, Lambert begins to think it just might work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I updated this sooner than expected. All your comments and kudos really inspired me- so thank you guys!

They walk into town late at night. Lambert, unlike Geralt, does not travel with a horse, so it takes the two of them the better part of a day to make it to an inn. By the time they arrive, Jaskier has fallen silent. He’s too tired to muster up his usual chatter, arms too heavy to even strum idly on his lute. 

The witcher next to him is equally silent, though that’s to be expected. What’s unexpected is that, when they go to the innkeeper to get rooms, Lambert only asks for one. 

“Are you alright with sharing?” he asks Jaskier. 

Jaskier can only nod dumbly. Exhaustion drags at his limbs like a fifty-kilogram weight. He’ll worry about paying Lambert back in the morning, when he’s had enough sleep and food to regain control of his own thoughts. 

They kick their boots off at the door. Lambert starts the long process of removing his armor while Jaskier strips down to his smallclothes and flops backward onto the bed, letting out a long groan of satisfaction. He knows from his years with Geralt exactly how long it will take for Lambert to rid himself of all his armor. He knows what it will sound like when Lambert closes the window. Knows how the bed will dip when a large, muscled body drops into it. The movements are familiar to him, even if the witcher with him isn’t. Jaskier lets the comfort of it pull him into sleep.

…

Lambert eyes the bard in his bed with something akin to fear tightening in his stomach. Jaskier is everything Geralt said he would be. He talks like a runaway horse, crashing from one topic to the next without a road to guide him. The babble should be annoying, but Lambert finds its constancy soothing. Besides, he has never had an audience more willing to listen to his stories of a life spent on the Path. And if some of them get turned into ballads, well, Lambert was never one to run from a little fame.

He tells himself that he offered to share the room with Jaskier out of kindness. The bard spent all his coin in the last town, leaving without a cent. Lambert would know; he spent a week following Jaskier around, looking for any sign that he wasn’t as trustworthy as Geralt said he was. But when no such evidence appeared, Lambert was forced to admit that Jaskier was as he seemed: a joyful, welcoming soul. 

So welcoming, in fact, that he has fallen asleep on one side of the bed, a clear space left by his side for another person to slide into. It’s an invitation of sorts, though Lambert won’t make assumptions of someone he just met. No matter how much he wants to. 

He lies down quietly, careful not to disturb the man beside him, and curls his body inwards. Just close enough to feel Jaskier’s heat, but not close enough to touch. The room smells of wood smoke and the musk of a day spent on the road. Not a hint of fear laces the air. Not even discomfort. Lambert holds that sensation in his mind as he drifts off. 

Sunlight through the window wakes him at dawn. He is still firmly on his side of the bed, but there is a hand pressed against his stomach, burning through his nightshirt. Jaskier is asleep. He is reaching out in his sleep. Lambert nearly throws himself out of bed, terrified by the bolt of pure need that hits him like a punch to the gut.

He thought he was used to it by now. The constant thrum of want in his bones is something that all witchers experience at some point. It’s the consequence of the terror that humans tend to feel around them, and of the lack of intimacy accompanying that fear. Lambert has dealt with this particular want for decades, always pushing it down or satisfying it for a brief time with a visit to the nearest brothel. Now, though, he is allowing himself to hope, to look for touch where it might be freely given, and it _hurts_ so much more than he expected it to. 

Lambert goes downstairs in search of food and, hopefully, a monster to kill. He comes back with both. Jaskier is seated on the edge of the bed, yawning dramatically and smelling of something sweet. Lambert sets a plate of biscuits in front of him. 

Geralt’s advice from Kaer Morhen floats back to him, then, a wiggling reminder in the back of Lambert’s skull. _Talk to him,_ Geralt had said. _He likes that._

Lambert was about launch into an explanation of what he learned from the innkeeper downstairs, but something about that feels too businesslike. He wants friendship here, closeness. So instead, he says, “Good morning.”

The simple greeting is rewarded with a smile bright enough to blind a lesser man. 

“It _is_ a lovely morning,” Jaskier says. “Nothing quite like good company and a soft bed to fix a man up after so long on the road.” He stretches languidly and pulls a biscuit from the plate Lambert brought up. “Thank you, darling.”

Lambert’s head is spinning. That creeping need is back again. It pushes against his skin, insistent and overwhelming. Lambert struggles to get himself back under control.

“You’re welcome.” He clears his throat, unsteady, and takes a stab at conversation. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Practice, mostly, and a bit of writing. A few of the stories you told me yesterday will make _superb_ ballads, with a little bit of work, so thank you very much for that. I love Geralt dearly, but he is a horrible storyteller.”

Lambert can hardly imagine Geralt trying to tell a story. Jaskier must speak fluent grunt if he manages to turn Geralt’s particular brand of monosyllables and swear words into the songs Lambert has heard so much about. He realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that he looks forward to hearing them in person. 

“How about you?” Jaskier asks. 

“I’ll handle the drowners this afternoon. It should be quick. The innkeeper also told me of a few attacks on the eastern road that sound like a griffin. I’ll check that out tomorrow if everything goes as planned tonight.”

“A griffin?” Jaskier’s eyes light up. “I would _very much_ like to accompany you on that investigation, if it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle.”

Lambert is already shaking his head. “Too dangerous. Griffins are nasty beasts. I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way.”

“Come _on_ , Lambert. Honestly. Geralt does the same thing- always trying to keep me out of ‘harm’s way.’ Can’t a bard have a little adventure now and then?”

“You hang around with witchers,” Lambert says dryly, “There’s plenty of adventure to be found without running headlong into danger.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes and bounces up from the bed. He throws on a bright blue doublet, runs fingers through his hair until it looks handsomely tousled instead of just sleep mussed, and saunters over to where he laid his lute down the night before. “Fine,” he says, strumming a few chords, oblivious as Lambert’s gaze latches onto his fingers curling around the strings. “But I expect to hear all about the drowners when you get back.”

…

The absolute worst part about being separated from Geralt is the loneliness. As much as Jaskier would like to have Geralt by his side at all times, the way they live their lives makes that impossible. Sometimes there are monsters that need slaying in towns without anywhere for a bard to perform. Sometimes there are month long musical competitions that bore witchers to death.

A little bit of separation is necessary for Jaskier and Geralt. Jaskier understands that, truly. But there is nothing he hates more than waking up to an empty bed. 

A strange sense of relief filled him when Lambert only asked for one room. It meant Jaskier wouldn’t have to lie awake like he does on most nights without Geralt by his side, feeling the cold and dark creeping in without anything to stop them. The reassuring presence of another warm body, and a _witcher_ at that, is more comforting than Jaskier wants to admit. 

Lambert is different from Geralt in a hundred different ways, no matter how similar they seem on the surface. For one thing, he’s much more willing to talk. He’s nowhere near Jaskier’s level of loquaciousness, but he speaks in full sentences and makes jokes far more often than his brother. There’s the glow of mirth in Lambert’s eyes more often than not. It makes Jaskier want to lean in closer, to see that amusement catch the light. 

When Lambert leaves to go hunt the drowners, Jaskier finds himself staring at the rumpled sheets he leaves behind. The witcher must have contorted himself in all sorts of strange ways to lie down next to Jaskier all night without touching him once. It reminds him of Geralt when their relationship was new and so many things were still uncertain.

…

_Geralt finishes with a groan and collapses next to Jaskier on the bed. His hair is sweaty and clumped from where Jaskier has spent the last hour tugging at it. He turns to Jaskier with an expression so breathtakingly open that Jaskier has to kiss him. It’s a soft press of lips that seeks nothing more than closeness. Geralt turns from it before it can really begin, just as he always does._

_The witcher pads away from him on silent feet. He’s grabbing clothes to sleep in, or maybe a cloth to clean them both up. Jaskier doesn’t care. All he wants is to curl up as close to Geralt as he can get and bask in how it feels to touch another person without the haze of sex and urgency between them._

_“Geralt. Come back to bed.”_

_Golden eyes flash at him in surprise. They don’t talk about this thing between them. They certainly don’t cuddle after sex._

_“Why?” he asks, voice a low rumble in the quiet of their room._

_“Let me hold you,” Jaskier says. It isn’t a question, though Geralt can say no if he wants. It’s an expression of need in no uncertain terms._

_For a moment, Geralt is the kind of quiet that hurts in Jaskier’s bones. If he has pushed too hard, or asked for too much…_

_If Jaskier has ruined this delicate moment, he will never forgive himself._

_Geralt finally moves, stumbling towards the bed as if pulled there by an unseen force. His eyes on Jaskier’s are hungry, aching for more than hands and mouths and filthy words. Unwilling to break the silence that hangs around them, Jaskier holds his arms open._

_The witcher falls against him, trembling. His quiet moan is muffled as he tucks his head into Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier wraps himself around Geralt as tight as he can; hands in long white hair, arms braced on strong shoulders, and legs draped over strong hips. Geralt breaks apart._

_Jaskier holds him until the sun comes up._

…

Bits and pieces of the story clicked together in Jaskier’s mind as time went by. Little mentions of whores who feared his scars, snippets of conversation from frightened village people, and Geralt’s own hesitancy to reach for Jaskier for anything other than carnal desires all came together to paint one horrible picture. A picture of deprivation and longing.

He sees the same story unfolding before him now. Lambert leans into touches like he fears them, as if he will show pleasure at something and have it immediately taken away. Jaskier caught some of his desperate glances on the road, but not until he sees the bed sheets does he figure out what they mean. Lambert _craves_ something he thinks he cannot have. 

With a plate of fresh biscuits beside him and the soft morning light falling onto his face like a caress, Jaskier resolves to prove him wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some real, actual work to do tomorrow, but this will definitely be updated sometime this weekend. Thanks for reading, and please feel free to leave a comment below- I love to read them and chat with people!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all you amazing, lovely people in the comments telling me to let them hug already- I hope you enjoy

The drowners take half an hour to wipe out. A couple swipes of his sword, a few muffled curses, and the beasts are dead at his feet, a threat to the nearby town no more. Lambert sits on the side of the river for a while, letting his clothes dry. 

Jaskier is playing in the village square when he returns. There is sunlight in his hair, bouncing off his lute strings. It shines out from his eyes when he smiles. 

“Lambert!” Jaskier calls, and Lambert is moving before he can think of a reason not to. 

An impromptu crowd has formed around Jaskier’s feet. He’s sitting on a bench that looks like it was dragged there specifically for him, and people lounge on the stones in front of him, laughing at the words to the song he’s playing. A few of them shy away from Lambert as he approaches. It’s fine. He’s used to that reaction. 

Lambert settles beside the bench and tilts his head back to listen. Jaskier is a full body performer. He dances as he sings, slapping his feet against the cobblestones and swaying his hips. Every word he sings in clearly pronounced with a snap on the consonants to make the lyrics clear, though the tiniest hint of an accent still leaks through, especially on some of the slower folksongs. 

Requests come from the crowd when the final note of each tune comes to a close. Jaskier is straying away from the dirtier songs, ever conscious of the kids playing around them, but he takes any request that’s clean and happy. He plays and grins and by the time a few more songs pass by, enough courage has built in Lambert’s chest for him to speak up. 

“How about ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’?”

The crowd falls silent when they hear his voice, and for a moment Lambert is worried that he ruined the magic of it all. Then a woman from the back of the group shouts, “I love that one!” and Jaskier jumps right back into his playing with no more than a wink of acknowledgement thrown in Lambert’s direction. 

They while away an hour in the square- Jaskier in his element and Lambert, surprisingly, less uncomfortable than he usually is with crowds. Perhaps because none of the people’s attention stays on him for long. They’re all too drunk on music and sunshine to fear the witcher in their midst.

Eventually, the morning melts away and Jaskier reminds them all to stop by the inn that evening if they want more. It’s sure to be a full house. 

With the people gone, Jaskier aims the full force of his attention at Lambert.

“You took care of that pretty quick,” he says brightly. “I’m impressed.”

Maybe it’s the music, or the warmth of the day, but Lambert grows bold. He tosses his hair back and smirks. “I’m just that good.”

Jaskier snorts at him, but it’s a fond sound. He reaches down to offer his hand, drawing Lambert’s attention to the fact that he’s still stretched out on the ground at Jaskier’s feet. He takes the offered hand with a nod of thanks and Jaskier hauls him to his feet. All Lambert’s muscle is heavy on its own, never mind the armor and weaponry weighing him down. It’s a show of strength that the bard brushes past without noticing the look of pleased surprise that spreads across Lambert’s face. 

Instead of dropping Lambert’s hand as soon as he’s on his feet, Jaskier holds it for a second, then runs his hand up Lambert’s bicep to drape his arm over Lambert’s shoulder. It’s casual, familiar. It sets Lambert’s head spinning. Jaskier guides him by the shoulder with ease, and Lambert follows along on heavy feet, too distracted to focus on where they’re going. 

“Come on, oh great witcher. Slayer of the drowners- protector of the town!” Jaskier squeezes his shoulder and bumps their hips together. “Let me buy you lunch.”

Jaskier guides them to a bakery that’s bustling with the midday rush. It’s a simple place- the people here don’t have money for much more than sandwiches- but the tables inside look crowded. Lambert knows there will be sounds and smells louder and stronger than he usually prefers. He decides not to let it bother him. Clean, easy kills like this one are too rare, and he won’t let his enhanced senses get in the way of his celebration.

The woman behind the counter smiles at Jaskier as he flips her a coin. She slides him two hunks of bread, a plate of cured meat, and two mugs of ale. Lambert thinks he sees her blush when they stride out the door again. 

Jaskier plops down on the side of the building facing the square and sets the food down next to him. Lambert stands next to him dumbly until he raises an eyebrow and says, “Sit.”

Lambert sits. “Why aren’t we eating inside?”

Jaskier shrugs and sidles over until his leg is pressed against Lambert’s. “Too loud.”

Lambert is about to ask how, exactly, a small-town bakery is louder than the performances Jaskier is used to, but he doesn’t manage to say anything before Jaskier launches into a long winded story about his time at Oxenfurt. It’s probably better not to ask, anyway. He would rather listen and bask in the warmth of Jaskier’s leg against his own. 

After lunch, Lambert makes his way to the house of the local lord. He’s owed payment for the drowners, simple at they were, and he wants to ask about the rumors of a griffin that the innkeeper mentioned. 

“That beast!” the lord exclaims when Lambert asks. “Been terrifying my people for months now, it has. I don’t suppose you could take care of that for me, Master Witcher?”

Lambert informs him that, yes, of course he can, and yes, it will cost extra. There’s a world of difference between a griffin and a couple of drowners. But the town is desperate, the coffers are full, and they part ways having settled on a contract. Despite neglecting payment for the few days he’ll need to track the thing and plan for the hunt, it’s one of the more generous contracts that Lambert has been offered recently. 

The inn is full that night. Word spread quickly that a bard was in town, and the _White Wolf’s_ bard no less. Lambert was lucky he grabbed a seat before people still flooded in, or he would have missed the show. 

Jaskier plays long and well. He starts light, eventually working his way into the bawdier songs- quick, dirty tunes about beautiful women and their heaving bosoms. More than a few of the ladies in the audience tug flirtatiously at the edge of Jaskier’s doublet as he passes through the crowd. He just sends them a smile and continues the set. 

By the time the night is over, Lambert is well-fed, warm with ale, and too strung out focus on anything besides Jaskier’s hands on his lute and the painful thought of sharing a bed again without being able to close the distance between them. He doesn’t know if it’s relief or some kind of new, exquisite torture when Jaskier finishes his performance, slides over to Lambert’s table, and walks them up the stairs. His hand is firm and hot on Lambert’s shoulder the whole way up.

…

The satisfaction of a show gone well settles deep into Jaskier’s bones as he heads to his room with Lambert. It’s the high of his passion for music combined with adoration from the crowd- a heady mix. But he needs his wits about him for tonight. He knows all too well how skittish witchers can get, especially when they are offered something that they feel guilty for wanting so desperately. Jaskier is determined to blow past Lambert’s defenses before he even realizes it’s happened.

Jaskier closes the door quietly behind him and sets his lute down beside it. Normally, he would be chattering away about the performance, or pestering Lambert with questions about some monster or another. Not tonight. Tonight, he shrugs off his clothes until he’s standing in nothing but his breeches and an undershirt. 

He turns to Lambert, who has just managed to get his boots off, and tugs at one of the straps holding his shoulder piece in place. The witcher freezes at his touch, but does not move away. That’s enough for Jaskier. 

“Why do you wear this all the time, anyway?’ he asks, knowing Lambert needs something to focus on. Geralt always did, especially the first few times Jaskier helped him undress. There is something remarkably intimate about removing someone else’s armor. 

He’s proven right when Lambert answers him in a voice noticeably rougher than it was the minute before. “It’s for protection.”

“Yes, obviously.” Jaskier finishes with the shoulder pieces and begins working on the various laces and buckles that keep the chest plate in place. “But why not take it off when you’re done fighting? I think silk is far more comfortable to lounge in than all this leather.” 

“Witchers don’t do much _lounging_.”

With the upper body armor removed, Jaskier rests his chin on Lambert’s shoulder and lets the witcher fumble off the heavy padding below his waist. “Pity. Lounging is the best activity in the _world_ , darling.” He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through Lambert at the endearment. “Preferably with lots of wine and naked women.”

Lambert makes a choked sound, clears his throat, and says, “Thought you and Geralt were exclusive?”

“We are.” He chuckles. “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view.”

Jaskier leans back a little, but stays close enough that he knows Lambert can still feel the warmth of his body. He was amazed, so many years ago, to discover how sensitive Geralt’s skin was to temperature. And touch. And…everything else, really. They spent a long, enthusiastic week in bed when Geralt finally worked up enough words to explain that witcher sensitivity extends beyond scent and sound. 

Movements slow and certain, Jaskier pulls his shirt over his head, tosses it lightly to one corner of the room, and heads off the question in Lambert’s eyes before he can ask it. “Don’t tell me you sleep fully clothed all the time? Because that would be a tragedy.” Jaskier tugs lightly on the edge of the undershirt that Lambert is still wearing before scooting back to lay against the pillows at the head of the bed. 

There is a brief moment of hesitation, a mere trembling of fingers, before Lambert pulls his shirt off as well. That won’t do _at all_. Jaskier needs him relaxed for this. He needs him too focused on the comfort of embrace to let shame rear its ugly head. It would be easier to avoid fully clothed, Jaskier knows, but he also knows that skin-to-skin contact is infinitely more satisfying than having two layers of cloth between them. 

He hopes that Lambert’s own uncertainty and self-flagellation will hold off long enough for Jaskier to get his arms around him. There won’t be any room for thought after that, he’s sure. Not with the way Lambert was watching him all day. Not when Jaskier knows, somewhere deep inside him, that no one has touched Lambert in years without him paying them first. 

Finally, _finally_ , Lambert leans back. He’s drawn up taut as whipcord, but they can fix that. Jaskier blows out the candle on his bedside table, plunging the room into darkness. He ignores the fact that witchers can see quite well in the dark. This is about tone, and he needs to strike just the right chord to have any hope of wiping some of that awful tension out of Lambert’s body. 

It looks painful. 

Jaskier tosses a blanket over them both- too much space between them still. Lambert is facing away from him, his breathing so even and regular that Jaskier knows he’s controlling it on purpose. He thinks briefly about not pushing the issue, but memories flood back of the terror written into every line of Geralt’s body the first few times they got this close. Fear of rejection. Of hatred. Fear that Jaskier would offer him something so beautiful and snatch it away at the last second, laughing at the poor, pathetic witcher in his bed. 

It took Jaskier too long to figure it out the first time. He read Geralt’s fear as reluctance, as rejection, and held himself back from true intimacy for weeks. Now, Jaskier has a better understanding of the ridiculous, twisted thought processes that witchers have when it comes to their own needs. He won’t make the same mistake twice. 

Jaskier rolls over so his chest is inches from Lambert’s back. He reaches out. He closes the distance. 

A broken noise works its way out of Lambert’s throat when Jaskier’s arms wrap around him. The witcher can’t help himself from pressing backward, trying to get as much contact as possible, but part of him screams to pull away before Jaskier can. Before he realizes what the scars on Lambert’s skin mean, before the smell of fear starts leaking off of him like it should, like it always does with humans. 

His breath is coming too fast. Jaskier squeezes tighter and drags his knuckles over Lambert’s stomach, feeling the muscles jump. He lays his palm flat when Lambert sucks in a ragged breath. 

“You don’t have to,” Lambert whispers, and it’s a tiny, _miserable_ little sentence. Jaskier hates it. He hates every single person who has ever made Lambert feel like he needs to say such a thing. 

“I want to,” he says. And again, “I _want_ to.” Because Geralt didn’t believe him the first time, either. 

“Jaskier-“

He cuts Lambert off with the gentle press of lips to the nape of his neck. That wrenches a groan out of the witcher in his arms, and Jaskier pulls them closer. He makes sure Lambert can feel the ghost of his breath as he says, “I choose this. Of my own free will.” Lambert is shaking freely now, his entire frame shuddering. “I want to hold you tonight, and tomorrow night if you’ll let me.” He drops a kiss to the place where Lambert’s neck meets his shoulder. Pitches his voice low. “Will you let me?”

Lambert comes alive under his hands. He spins around in the bed, eyes wild, and buries his face in Jaskier’s neck. They’re chest-to-chest now, skin pressed as close as it can get. Lambert’s arms wrap around Jaskier and Jaskier tangles their legs together under the blanket. His own arms are strong and sure where they hold Lambert against him. 

Breath comes out in hot puffs against Jaskier’s throat from where Lambert is losing control. Helpless little sounds fall out of him- muffled whimpers and groans as he tries to hold himself together. Jaskier welcomes it. He slides a hand into Lambert’s long hair and tugs lightly, smiling at the punched out moan he gets in return. 

The noises will quiet, Jaskier knows, as Lambert relaxes. The last of the tension will fall from his shoulders. His breathing will slow and he will tumble over into the kind of sleep that only comes with safety. Minutes or hours, it doesn’t matter. 

Jaskier will hold him until he wakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am super overwhelmed with all the kinds words and encouragement you guys are sending me. Thank you so much! I'm technically on "spring break" this week, so I'll have all kinds of free time to write and I will update this often. Also, if you guys have any prompts or story ideas you'd like me to write, please feel free to leave them in the comments. I love writing stuff for requests, and it'll help stave off the boredom ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't forgotten Eskel, I swear. It's his turn soon ;)

_The conversation over dinner haunts Lambert for days. ‘I got tired of the pain,’ Geralt had said, and those words shot through Lambert like a fucking sword to the chest. Because he was right. It did hurt. It hurt every damn day, and somehow Geralt had found a way out. He’d found Jaskier._

_Lambert needs to know more. Eskel does too, he’s certain, though they never talk about it directly. The two of them reach an agreement in silent looks and nods as they spar- the language they were raised on. They’re on the same side, no question about that. The only issue now is Geralt._

_He’ll never offer up information on his own. Getting him drunk might work, but that takes a of liquor, and he’s just as likely to fly into a fit of rage as he is to spill his secrets. No, they need him vulnerable, off balance._

_It takes a week or so, but their patience is rewarded with the perfect opportunity. Geralt is bathing in Kaer Morhen’s hot spring. Eskel has just come back from hunting their dinner. Lambert is done with the potions he was preparing._

_“Hot spring,” Lambert says as Eskel enters the hall, and that’s all it takes. They head down together._

_Geralt grunts a greeting when they walk into the cavern with the spring and strip down. This is a common enough occurrence. They wash in silence for a few minutes, enjoying how the hot water melts away the frigid winter air that has seeped into all their bones. Lambert leans against the ledge that Geralt is relaxing on. Eskel quietly positions himself between Geralt and the door._

_“Tell me about this bard of yours,” Lambert says. It’s not subtle, but it doesn’t need to be. Not between the three of them._

_“His name is Jaskier,” Geralt corrects. Not very helpful, but definitely more than Lambert was expecting on his first go. Across the spring, Eskel gives him a slow nod of encouragement._

_“Yes, Jaskier. Tell me about him.”_

_Geralt’s stare is guarded, maybe even a little angry. “Why the fuck do you care?”_

_Lambert shrugs. “Idle curiosity.”_

_“Be curious about something else.”_

_“But I’m curious about_ this _. You’ve traveled with him for years now and you hardly say anything about him. You can hardly blame me for wanting to know more.”_

_Geralt doesn’t bother answering. He pushes out of the water and heads for the door, as if he can escape this conversation. Eskel is faster, planting himself like a mountain in front of the exit. Geralt eyes them both, ire written into the planes of his face. “What the fuck is this?”_

_“We want to talk to you,” Eskel says firmly._

_“Please, Geralt,” Lambert murmurs, and he sees surprise in the tightness of Geralt’s stance. He turns slowly, still looking warily between them, and slides back down into the spring._

_“Why?”_

_Eskel swallows down his shame. He meets Lambert’s eyes across the water and is steadied by the steel he finds there. He looks to Geralt._

_“You aren’t the only one who’s tired of the pain.”_

…

Lambert leaves the griffin’s head neatly wrapped in a sack on the lord’s doorstep and heads back to the inn. It was a long, grizzly fight. There’s a long gash down his right side from where he couldn’t get his sword up fast enough, and a potion still hums in his veins, turning his eyes black and making every villager unlucky enough to see him run away with fear. The sheer amount of blood drenching his armor isn’t helping matters, either.

He slams open the doors to the inn more forcefully than he meant to, sending a harsh thud throughout the room and causing several patrons to scramble back in shock. Whispers start up as he passes through. None of them are kind. 

Jaskier is upstairs in their room, composing. Lambert hears the soft twang of his lute from a few doors away. The sound calms him, washing away some of the post-kill adrenaline that’s still coursing through him. 

The music stops when he pushes into their room, dripping blood on the floor. Jaskier stumbles off the bed with a gasp of surprise. Lambert waits for the scent of fear to hit his nose, but somehow, miraculously, it doesn’t. All he can smell is Jaskier’s worry and something light and warm like…fondness?

“Oh dear,” Jaskier breathes in that musical way of his. “Are you hurt?” 

“Just a scratch,” Lambert grits out. He’s not very chatty on the best of days, and after a fight it takes a while for his brain to come back to earth. 

“Alright.” There’s the quick shock of touch as Jaskier’s brushes his knuckles over Lambert’s cheek and says, “Wait here a moment, I’ll be right back.” Then he’s gone. Lambert doesn’t want to get blood on the bed, so he sits down right where he is and begins to work off his boots. 

True to his word, Jaskier reappears a few minutes later, bringing with him a plate of food and that light, warm smell. 

“I ordered you a bath,” he says as he sets the food down. His hands go quickly to the buckles on Lambert’s armor and he helps pull the blood-stained leather away. “Honestly,” Jaskier murmurs as he works, “is this some sort of witcher code I’m unaware of? That you must all come back covered in as much blood and creature bits as possible?”

“Not a code.” 

Jaskier pauses for a minute to brush back Lambert’s hair and give him a soft smile. “I know, darling. I’m only teasing.”

A knock comes at the door. Two servant girls bring in a tub and pitchers of heated water. They leave as quickly as they came. 

Lambert is sitting nearly naked on the floor in a pool of griffin blood, eyes black as onyx with two massive swords propped up against the wall. He can’t really blame them. 

Firm hands grasp at his shoulders. “Up,” Jaskier orders. Lambert lifts his heavy body from the wood and goes where Jaskier guides him. He slides into the warm water with a groan, memories resurfacing of another bath, in another time, when his thoughts were just as occupied with Jaskier as they are now, albeit in a very different way. 

…

_”He travels with me. I kill monsters, he writes songs about it, and I try to keep him from getting his throat ripped out. That’s it.” Geralt grinds out the story like the words burn in his mouth._

_Eskel shakes his head. “There’s more to it than that.”_

_“You said he…helps,” Lambert adds, tone softer than Eskel’s. “How?”_

_They can see Geralt struggling. The muscles in his hand tense and relax in rapid succession, and they can all smell the frustration rolling off him in waves. But he recognizes the ache behind their questions, and he’s trying. That’s all Lambert can ask for._

_“Jaskier is…” Geralt trails off, searching for the right word. “Touchy,” he says finally. “He likes to put his hands on me. I like them there.”_

_“You mean he likes to fuck?” This from Eskel, who clearly cannot read a room._

_“No,” Geralt growls, then backtracks. “Yes.” He curses and turns his head, unable to meet his brothers’ eyes. “Not just in bed. On the road, too, or when we make camp. He likes to hold my hand.” Geralt’s voice grows defensive, “He likes to sleep in my bed and braid my fucking hair. Is that what you wanted to hear?”_

_Eskel watches Geralt with an unreadable expression. “He’s not afraid of you?” he asks bluntly. “Of the fact that you could snap him like a twig?”_

_“No. Jaskier is shit at staying away from danger.”_

_Eskel nods, though Geralt can tell he doesn’t quite believe it, and Lambert tilts his head back into the water. If he focuses hard enough, the waves almost feel like a caress. Across the pool, Eskel’s mind is occupied by much of the same._

_“Sounds nice,” he says and they lapse into silence, each man alone with his thoughts._

…

It _is_ nice. More than nice. Lambert leans back in the tub, Jaskier’s clever fingers teasing blood and griffin feathers from his hair, and revels in the pure, simple joy of hands on his skin. They’ve slept in the same bed every night for a week, pressed close under the covers. It’s the best week of sleep Lambert has ever had, and it’s enough prolonged exposure that he no longer shatters apart at the brief touches that Jaskier is so prone to.

Jaskier hums as he rubs away dirt and tension from Lambert’s back, little snippets of slow songs that don’t play as well with common audiences. He seems comfortable with the act of washing a body of blood. Practiced. Lambert wonders how many times the bard has been in this exact position with a certain white-haired witcher. He wonders why Jaskier is so willing to do the same for a man he barely knows. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. It’s barely a sentence, so softly does he say it.

Jaskier’s hands still in his hair, just for a second. He picks up a pot of soap that smells like nothing at all. Works it into a lather. His answer is a long time coming. 

“Would you deny a man food, if you had it and he did not?” 

Lambert is silent. 

“All people need touch. All of them. It is cruel of the world to deny you that, to run from you when you risk your life every day to kill the monsters that would destroy it, if given the chance.” He reaches over to grab a pitcher and fills it with water to pour over Lambert’s head, washing away the soap. With that done, Jaskier sinks to his knees and rests his head on the side of the tub. The blue of his eyes is piercing where he meets Lambert’s gaze. 

“Do not think I pity you,” he says firmly, though there’s kindness beneath the words, “Because I don’t. I’m a selfish man, Lambert. I don’t like traveling alone, and I can’t stand an empty bed. Having you here is as much for my comfort as it is for yours.” Those words loosen the guilt creeping up in Lambert’s throat. They dislodge the whispers that claw at the back of his mind, accusing him of taking advantage of Jaskier’s kindness, of _taking_ anything for himself. 

Jaskier reaches out with one hand to cradle Lambert’s face, thumb sweeping gentle arcs across his cheekbone. “Besides,” he says, “I like helping you clean off. I might not be able to help you fight, but I can do this. I can make sure you have somewhere safe and warm to come back to.” He leans in, a smile crinkling his eyes. “Would you deny me that?” 

Lambert can only shut his eyes, shake his head, and shudder at the kiss Jaskier presses to his temple.

…

They part ways the next day. There is no more work for Lambert in town, and Jaskier has promised to meet up with Geralt in a few days time in Kaedwen. Breakfast is a quiet affair, or as quiet as something can be with Jaskier in the room, and they walk to the edge of town together. Jaskier is eastbound, Lambert west.

Jaskier pulls Lambert into a bone-crushing hug, uncaring that he’s covered in armor and weaponry. Lambert buries his face in Jaskier’s neck and breathes deep. There’s excitement there, for the open road, and a tinge of sadness, but still no fear. Never that. 

When Jaskier pulls back, his hands come up to cradle Lambert’s face. “Don’t make destiny do all the work next time.”

“What does that mean?” Lambert asks. The question comes out on a huff of laughter. 

“It means, my sweet, silly witcher, that you shouldn't leave our next meeting up to chance.” Jaskier’s lips quirk up into a smile. “Just follow the rumors of beautiful music and ladies’ broken hearts- I can’t be that difficult to track.” He runs a tender hand through Lambert’s hair, dry and blessedly free of blood. “I always enjoy company, especially company as fine as yours. Come find me- you’ll be welcome.”

Lambert’s heart jumps at the invitation, so freely offered. He can tell Jaskier means it. And he has never meant anything more than when he says, “I will.”

…

Hundreds of miles away, in a shitty tavern on the southernmost edge of Cintra, a farmer spits at Eskel’s feet. He curses- something about dirty witchers and the beasts they hunt- and everything is suddenly, painfully, _too much_. Every insult. Every curse. Every whore who looks at him like he’s not worth the coin they got for touching him. It all hits Eskel at once.

He pushes to his feet. Manages, just barely, not to knock the man’s breath out of his lungs on the way out. He makes it to the stables and collapses against his horse’s flank, fighting to keep his breath steady and his legs firm. 

Eskel is _tired_. 

After a long minute, Eskel swings himself into the saddle and digs his heels into the horse’s side. They fly out of town, fast as wind over the sea. North, Eskel thinks. They’ll head north. 

It’s time to find Geralt’s bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have completely blown me away with all the support! I read all your comments and they make me smile so hard, you don't even know. Thank you so much, and I hope you continue to enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't yet listened to "Fair" by the Amazing Devils, please do. Joey Batey's voice is too powerful for words

_They have to let Geralt leave the hot spring eventually, of course, and if they’re being honest, Eskel and Lambert are too preoccupied with the ache under their skins to worry about grilling him any further. Lambert leaves shortly after Geralt, but Eskel stays, soaking and thinking._

_Geralt surprises everyone, perhaps none more so than himself, when he brings it up again a few nights later._

_“He’d like to meet you,” Geralt says, and falls abruptly silent again. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing._

_Vesemir is away from the hall tending to matters in another part of the keep, leaving only Eskel and Lambert to hear the quiet words. They don’t have to ask who Geralt is talking about._

_“He would?” Lambert asks cautiously._

_Geralt grunts noncommittally. He makes the mistake of looking up from the sword he’s sharpening, only to be speared by two sets of hungry, piercing eyes. He knows that look all too well. It hurts to see, and he decides that maybe, just maybe, a little more effort is called for in this conversation. “He asks after you, sometimes. About what you’re like. How we grew up together.”_

_A fond smile teases at Lambert’s lips, and Eskel’s eyes light up with mischief. “Oh, the stories I could tell your bard, Geralt,” he teases. “Do you remember that summer when you-“_

_“Shut up,” Geralt growls. They know he doesn’t mean it._

_The only sound is the crackle of logs in the fireplace and the low rasp of metal as it’s dragged over a whetstone. Lambert breaks the quiet._

_“I’d like to meet him,” he says. Eskel nods his assent._

_There is a choice to be made. Geralt can let the issue drop, can let it be just one more meaningless conversation amongst decades of the same, and it will never be brought up again. His brothers will walk the Path once more, alone like he used to be, never crossing paths with the bard who has brought Geralt so much joy._

_Or, he can say something. Can push the conversation from speculation to certainty, from idle chatter into a solid, spoken offer. It would be so, so easy to say nothing. But he remembers long days on the Path, cold nights, the disdain in human eyes as he passes through their towns._

_Geralt chooses to speak._

_“We don’t travel together all the time,” he says, gaze fixed firmly on the edge of his blade. “Some weeks he needs to go one way and I another.” Geralt pulls in a deep breath, the weight of his brothers’ eyes on his chest like an extra plate of armor. “I do not think he would be averse to…company.”_

_He does not need to say the other thing hanging in the back of his mind. That he would like to know Jaskier does not have to travel alone- that one of his brothers may be willing to watch his back when Geralt cannot. There are so many monsters in the world, and Geralt is only one man._

_Lambert’s pulse is pounding loud enough for Geralt to hear across the room. Eskel’s is as well, though he’s better at controlling it._

_“Do you think he would…?” Lambert trails off, uncertain. Words hang between them, unspoken but still echoing to the deepest reaches of Kaer Morhen’s cavernous ceilings. After all their years together, Geralt can read the silence well._

Do you think he would welcome us, as he did you? Would he hold us close, not as lovers, but as friends? Can one bard’s heart be big enough for that?

_”Yes.”_

_It’s a simple answer, an honest answer. It washes over Geralt’s brothers like a balm._

_He gives them a minute to process before adding, “But if you put one single finger where he doesn’t want it, I’ll rip your cocks out through your throats.”_

…

Jaskier doesn’t even flinch when a body presses against his back and two large hands settle on his hips. He knows that body. He trusts those hands.

“Hello, love,” he says brightly. Jaskier leans back into the hold, lute held loose in his arms, and tips his head so he can see Geralt’s eyes. “How was Kaedwen?”

“Boring,” comes the answering rumble. Hands come up to pull Jaskier’s fingers from his instrument. “Put that down.”

Jaskier grins. He places the lute down gently against a wall- he was standing outside the stables of yet another inn, waiting for Geralt- and turns into his lover’s embrace. A yelp of surprise is knocked out of him when Geralt picks him up to press him against the wall behind them, Jaskier’s legs fitting neatly around his waist, lithe body held with little effort by the arms around him. 

“Not enough challenge in monster killing anymore?” he teases. Jaskier reaches out to tuck a curl of white hair behind Geralt’s ear. It’s cleaner than he expected, after so long apart. Geralt must have taken a dunk in a stream before coming to town. 

“Missed you,” is all he says, and Jaskier _melts._

Jaskier wants to say something sappy back, but they are quickly nearing the limit of how much sweetness Geralt can take at once. He deals with action much better than words. So Jaskier tightens his legs around Geralt’s hips and leans down to steal a kiss. “Missed you too, darling.” He nips at Geralt’s ear. “Why don’t you take me upstairs and I’ll show you just how much?”

Geralt puts him down with an eager noise and Jaskier leads him upstairs, laughing all the way.

…

They lie in bed together, a tangle of limbs. Geralt breathes deep, soaking in the smells of pleasure and happiness wafting from Jaskier’s skin. Like spiced apples and honey wine. Like the first ray of sun through the remnants of a thunderstorm.

Jaskier’s fingers tangle in his hair. Later, when he doesn’t feel quite so vulnerable, Geralt will ask him to braid it. For now, all he wants is to enjoy the press of skin on skin, the warmth of Jaskier’s breath in the hollow of his throat. He loves these silent moments, though the “silent” bit never lasts long. 

“I ran into your brother,” Jaskier says. 

His voice breaks the quiet, but it does not break the moment. Geralt is too warm and content to think much, and far too satisfied for real worry. “Which one?” he mumbles.

The smell of honey wine spikes in his nose as Jaskier tugs lightly at the hair in his hand, scratching at Geralt’s scalp the way he likes so much. “Lambert. He’s a real sweetheart, you know. Not that he’d be happy to hear me say it out loud, mind, but he is. We traveled together for a few days, and I got some great song material out of it. He’s a fabulous story-teller, unlike _some_ people I know.” 

Geralt hums. “You love me,” he says, just to feel the shiver that ripples down Jaskier’s spine upon hearing it. “Even if my stories suck.”

“Well, yes,” Jaskier says, his voice breathy and pleased. “Obviously. But it was nice to meet another witcher, especially one you’re close with. I can see why you trust him so much.”

“I’m glad he found you,” Geralt says, only half aware of his own words. 

Jaskier’s hand stills in his hair. “Found me?”

Shit. Geralt tenses up on instinct and tries to relax a second later, because Jaskier will notice, damn him. He always notices. He always notices, he always finds the thing Geralt doesn’t want to talk about, and he always makes them talk about it anyway. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier starts, “What do you mean he ‘found me’?”

“Told him you’d be in Redania a while. If he wanted to meet you.”

That should be enough. It would be, for anyone but Jaskier. But Geralt can hear the gears grinding in his thoughts, can practically smell the pieces falling into place. He crushes down the panic that forms in his chest. 

Jaskier stares at the edge of the bed they’re curled up on, brows pinched in concentration. “Lambert was…lonely,” he says slowly. “And _you_ told him to come _find me_ in Redania.” 

All of the warmth floods out of Geralt’s body, leaving him bereft and shivering. He’s suddenly, painfully afraid that this is it. This is the stupid, unthinking, emotionally idiotic thing that will drive Jaskier from his side forever. 

“Jaskier-“ he starts, but the bard’s voice cuts over his own. 

“You told your brothers to come find me if- what, if they needed a hug?”

The world is spinning out of control. Geralt feels like the bed is falling away underneath him. The only thing that tethers him to the ground is that honey wine, sunshine smell that has yet to disappear. But it will, he’s sure. It will disappear, and it will take Jaskier with it. 

“Jaskier, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“ A growl of frustration works its way out of Geralt’s throat. “I would never take advantage-“

Those words snap something in Jaskier. He stops staring into the distance, focusing instead on the man in his arms. Horror sweeps across his face. 

“Oh, darling,” he says with a gasp. “No-no-no-no-no. You did _not_ take advantage of me. I’m just overcome, overwhelmed really, that’s so-“ Jaskier pauses to haul in a breath. He presses their lips together in a tender kiss, the smell of honey and apples so strong Geralt could drown in it. “Geralt, that is the _sweetest_ thing I have ever heard.”

The panic recedes. Geralt is still tense- jaw clenched uncomfortably, poised on the brink of pulling out of Jaskier’s arms, if the bard tells him to- but he feels a lot less like throwing up than he did a second ago. “I should have asked,” he says roughly. 

Jaskier cradles Geralt’s face in his hands, forcing the witcher to meet his eyes, as he says, “No. You did just the right thing, my love. You saw a need in people you care about, and you addressed it.” He smiles, blinding in the low light. “You told them that they should look for me, but anything that happened after that was completely up to me. You gave both of us a choice, yes? No one was taken advantage of, least of all me. I’m grateful, truly, to be able to forge friendships with your brothers.”

Geralt lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, muscles relaxing as Jaskier runs his hands down his arms. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, completely sure,” Jaskier answers. He pulls Geralt close again, dropping kisses along the edge of his shoulder, palms soothing over his back. “I’m not angry, Geralt. I’m proud, actually.”

Geralt huffs out a breath that Jaskier correctly interprets as a question. 

“I mean it. That conversation must have been difficult, and I’m damn proud that you had it.” Jaskier pulls back so he can meet Geralt’s eyes. “How did the topic even come up?” 

“They cornered me in the hot spring.”

Jaskier practically vibrates out of his skin at that, the citrus scent of amusement mixing in the air with all of his other emotions. Fuck, Jaskier is _glowing._

“They _cornered you_ , in the _hot spring?_ ”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier laughs aloud- head tilted back and eyes crinkled in an expression of pure joy. “Sweet Melitele,” he chuckles, “I would pay my last coin to have witnessed _that_ little conversation.”

He laughs away Geralt’s unease. They fall asleep that way- pressed together as close as possible, barely-there smiles on each of their faces, the scent of honey and sunshine thick between them.

…

The White Wolf and his bard carve a path through the heartland of Kaedwen for a month, leaving a path of slain monsters and musically educated villagers behind them. They fall into an easy rhythm of touches and kind words- the casual intimacy of two people who are so used to living together that it is hard to imagine anything else.  
Geralt saves Jaskier from one or two angry beasts when he strays too close to the fight, Jaskier lets him fuss when they go back to the inn, and they fall asleep in the same bed, any arguments from the day forgotten beneath warm fingers and gentle breath. Jaskier debuts a few new songs that become instant hits. It’s as beautiful as life on the Path can be.

Fate draws them apart after four weeks. There are rumors of a winged beast in Aedirn that Geralt needs to look into, and a competition for bards is being held by a noblewoman in Temeria that Jaskier simply _must_ win. He braids Geralt’s hair the morning they part, tucking bright yellow flowers into every corner of the braid. They kiss goodbye at the crossroads with plans to meet again soon, as soon as they can. 

Geralt doesn’t peer backward as Jaskier walks away. He definitely doesn’t wait until Jaskier’s figure disappears down the road before urging Roach to move. 

And if both those things are a lie, Jaskier never needs to know.

…

As musical competitions go, the one Eskel is watching isn’t half bad. He leans against a marble wall, surveying the crowd, and sips from a glass of wine. The nobles in the room all assume that the hostess of the event, Countess Aryemi, hired him for protection. She did not. Eskel is there for his own personal reasons. Or rather, reason. One specific reason, with bright blue eyes and an elven lute.

The woman on stage finishes her last song to raucous applause. Her seat is filled a few seconds later by a man who matches Geralt’s description of Jaskier perfectly. Eskel shifts out of the shadows as subtly as he can and tilts his head towards the man, making eye contact as he begins his set. The man- Jaskier, Eskel’s sure of it now- grins back at him, completely unbothered by the pendant around his neck that marks him as a witcher. 

Jaskier’s quite good with that lute of his. The crowd is on its feet by the second song, and even Eskel is nodding along to a few of the tunes that he recognizes from snippets in town squares and inns he’s passed. Jaskier takes a flamboyant bow at the end of his performance, winning both the competition and the heart of every maiden in the audience. 

Eskel was planning to introduce himself once the mass of admirers around the bard dispersed a little, but, to his surprise, Jaskier comes right up to him after receiving his prize. He smells of triumphant joy and not a hint of uncertainty. Eskel wants to _live_ in that smell. 

“Lovely to meet you, Eskel,” Jaskier greets him. Eskel raises an eyebrow at the correct guess of his name, and he gets a grin in return. “I know your brothers,” the bard explains. 

“I hear you’re fucking one of them,” Eskel says, a note of challenge in his voice. 

“Frequently and with passion, I assure you,” Jaskier shoots back. “What brings you to this lovely corner of Temeria tonight?”

“The music.” Eskel tilts his head to the crowd. All the performances are over, but a hall full of bards is never quiet. “And kikimore a few towns over.”

His mouth carries on the conversation without too much input from his brain, because Eskel’s brain has flown out the fucking door. He _wants,_ gods does he want, but he doesn’t know how to do this. It took more effort to dress nicely and haul himself to this competition than Eskel will ever admit out loud. 

He doesn’t have any experience asking for things that he wants. That he needs. Much less asking for something as intimate and personal as this. Eskel is just about to give up and consign himself to another few decades of ceaseless longing when Jaskier asks where he’s headed next. 

“South to Sodden,” he answers. Jaskier leans against the wall next to him and slings an arm over Eskel’s shoulder. The heat of it burns through his shirt. 

“Mind if I tag along?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love seeing all your reactions and questions in the comments. Seriously, I could not ask for a sweeter or more engaged readership than this. I appreciate you guys so much!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I woke up to 27 emails from the archive with comments from you guys, and I have literally never smiled so hard.

The next morning, Jaskier meets Eskel at the stables. He is finishing up preparations for the day’s ride, packing weapons and food into his saddlebags. Jaskier has his lute, a sack full of gold from the previous night’s competition, and his usual bag of clothes, snacks, and medical supplies. Enough time spent with Geralt has trained him better than any healer could. 

Eskel holds out his hand. Jaskier isn’t sure why, so he stares at it blankly. The witcher snorts at him. 

“Your stuff?” he prompts. 

“Oh!” Jaskier hands over his bags, fingers lingering on his instrument. Eskel takes it gingerly and ties it to the horse so it won’t fall off or get bumped as they ride. He slings himself onto the horse and holds out his hand again. 

“You coming?”

Jaskier takes the hand with a giddy smile. Geralt _never_ lets him ride. “Will your horse be alright with the extra load?”

Eskel pulls him up and sets him on the horse in one easy move. “You don’t weight much, bard. We’ll go slower than I would normally, but she’ll be fine.”

They set out from town at an easy clip. It’s been a while since Jaskier rode a horse but he is, technically, nobility, so his childhood involved quite a few riding lessons. Riding _with_ someone is new, though. Jaskier only ever gets on Roach if someone is injured, and it’s usually him. 

It’s a shame, Jaskier thinks, that he doesn’t ride with Geralt more often. Because this is _lovely._ He’s settled at the front of the saddle- Eskel has a few inches on him, so he can see - and the witcher’s arms are around him, holding the reins. Jaskier leans back into the hold, soaking up Eskel’s body heat to combat the spring morning chill. 

He was wondering when Eskel’s path would cross his own. It seems an accident that they met at the palace, but he knows better. Eskel sought him out. Jaskier knows how much bravery that must have taken. He knows how much pain Eskel must be in to make such bravery necessary. 

Jaskier notices the sharp inhale of breath when his back presses flush against Eskel’s chest, but he doesn’t say anything. Just closes his eyes and relaxes, hoping that the man behind him will take the cue to relax a little as well. His muscles are held perfectly still, corded and taut like he’s balancing on the edge of a knife blade. It looks exhausting. 

Eskel shifts, his arms twitching inward, brushing against Jaskier’s sides. He’s holding himself just barely out of reach, touching as little as possible. If Jaskier had witcher senses, he’s sure Eskel would smell of nervousness. Of longing. 

Jaskier sits forward a little, pulls Eskel’s arms tight around him, and relaxes back again, trying to make the motion feel natural. Trying to get Eskel to accept it without fear or fanfare. 

“Where were you before Temeria?” he asks. 

Eskel launches into a halting, awkward description of his weeks in Cintra and Jaskier cuddles back against him, pleased when the witcher doesn’t move his arms away. He tells his own stories when Eskel is done, speaking of monsters and songs, of beautiful women and angry husbands, of his time at university, learning his craft. Jaskier lets his voice carry them and, with every passing mile, Eskel curls a little closer.

…

The tavern smells like piss and the ale tastes worse. That’s all Lambert can focus on as he leans his head against the wall, holding down a groan. His entire right side is plastered with bruises- courtesy of a particularly vicious striga and the ungrateful town it lived near. The pain wouldn’t bother him so much if his ale were better.

Not for the first time, he wonders what he’d be doing if Jaskier were with him. Bathing more, probably. He wouldn’t be so cold at night. The bruises on his side would fade beneath a gentle touch. Even his piss-poor ale wouldn’t be so bad with Jaskier singing in the background. 

No wonder Geralt keeps him around. And no wonder he showed up at Kaer Morhen a changed man- Lambert was barely around Jaskier a week, and already he can feel something in him shifting. The Path doesn’t seem so harsh, nor the fighting so hard, when he thinks about collapsing into bed and being held. 

_Don’t make destiny do all the work next time. Come find me._

Lambert will. He’ll find his way back into Jaskier’s arms if it costs him a limb to do it, but not yet. The monsters don’t stop just because Lambert is lonely. There is work to be done before he can allow himself a rest. 

He takes a swig from his tankard, grimacing as it goes down. At the front of the tavern, a young bard takes the stage. Her short hair falls pleasingly around a face that’s set with determination. Lambert listens idly as he eats, already planning where to head next. 

The bard plays a few songs he knows, mostly sea shanties from Skellige, before moving onto longer ballads. Epics. She sings of the White Wolf and his exploits, bringing Geralt’s adventures to life. It’s strange to hear Jaskier’s words sung by another, but it isn’t unpleasant. 

He nods along to a few, remembering warm nights when Jaskier would pluck at his lute in the quiet of their room, working out new material that Lambert wasn’t around long enough to hear. The female bard finishes one epic and launches into another, this time about a witcher’s heroic battle with a chimaera. 

A chimaera. 

Lambert sits up straight and starts to listen properly, teasing out every word the bard says. Her voice rises to the heavens, singing of an epic sword fight and a terrible beast. Of the man who fought to protect a city. Of the horrible scar he received as a reward.

He presses a hand to the ridged skin beneath his armor, tracing the path a chimaera’s claws traced so many years ago. Because this song isn’t about the White Wolf. It’s about him. It’s about Lambert. 

And suddenly, Jaskier doesn’t feel so far away.

…

Eskel calls a halt as the sun goes down. Alone, he usually rides through the night, or at least walks his horse, but he is not alone. Jaskier is with him, curled up against Eskel’s chest as though he finds nothing to fear in the arms of a witcher.

“We’ll make camp here,” he says. Jaskier slides off the horse and immediately Eskel feels the loss. He hadn’t noticed how cold it was. 

They make a fire. Eskel hunts a few rabbits and Jaskier skins them perfectly, laying the furs out to dry before handing over the meat to be cooked. Eskel doesn’t know why he expected the bard to be squeamish, but clearly he has adjusted to life on the Path. The rabbits are skewered and ready to roast a few minutes later. A hand on Eskel’s shoulder stops him before he can put them on the fire. 

“Wait,” Jaskier says, rummaging through his bag. “I brought something for this.” He pulls out three pouches of spice. Eskel can smell how fresh they are. Jaskier must have picked them up that morning before they met at the stables. 

“Why?” Eskel asks. It seems a stupid question, but he says it with honesty. He has always eaten the meat he hunts plain. 

Jaskier scoffs and rolls his eyes fondly. “I know you witchers believe in dealing with things in stoic silence, but there’s no need to be miserable about it. Food should have _flavor_ , darling, even when you hunt it yourself.”

Eskel takes the pouches in gob smacked silence. Carrying spice for cooking on the road is such an obvious idea, yet he hasn’t thought of it, even after a life spent on the Path. He mixes the spices together in the bowl he carries for grinding potion ingredients, rubs each rabbit with some of the mixture, and pops the meat over the fire. It’s the best meal he’s had in ages. 

After they eat, Jaskier leans against a tree and strums at his lute. The music is all low tones, pitched to match the night around them. Eskel sits at the fire, aching to press himself close to the bard, but uncertain how to go about it. 

“It’s a beautiful lute,” he says. 

Jaskier’s eyes glow with pleasure in the firelight. “Thank you. It was a gift, from the first adventure I ever went on with Geralt.”

Eskel’s eyes catch on the strings of the lute. They’re metal. An odd detail, especially given the instrument’s origins. 

“I thought elven lutes used gut strings,” he says. 

Jaskier glances down at his hands, as if reminding himself what his instrument is made of. “Yes, I had to have them replaced after-“ He gasps and raises his head to meet Eskel’s eyes. “How did you know that?”

Eskel shrugs. “I pay attention to the world around me.” It’s a vague answer, a silly answer, and they both know it. 

“Nice try,” Jaskier laughs, “but I don’t believe you. Did you study elven music or something at Kaer Morhen?” He scrutinizes Eskel for a moment before a shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “You _play._ ”

“No, I don’t,” Eskel says, too quickly. 

“You _do!_ ” Jaskier crows. He’s practically bouncing where he sits, looking at Eskel with an expression of unbridled joy. “You can’t lie to me, witcher. I see the cracks in that armor of yours.” He leans in like they’re sharing a secret, whispering so only enhanced hearing could pick up on his words. “You play the lute!”

Even if Eskel wanted to resist that smile, he couldn’t. He’s too punch drunk on the smell of rapturous joy rippling off Jaskier’s skin. “Fine. I do play, a little.”

“Yes!” Jaskier shoots up from his seat against the tree and practically trips over himself to reach Eskel’s side, dropping his lute unceremoniously in Eskel’s lap once he does. “Proof!” he cries. 

“It’s been years-“ 

Jaskier waves off his protests. “You’ll remember. Come on, anything. I’m sure you know a drinking song or two.” 

He does know some drinking songs. A few ballads, too. Eskel only ever learned how to play a chord or two- long ago, when he still thought people could see witchers as something more than killing machines- but some songs only use a couple chords. He picks up the instrument, taking a second to remember how to place his fingers. Eskel strums lightly, just once, and Jaskier’s scent spikes with happiness so strong that he is helpless to do anything but play. 

It’s a slow song, because the chords are easier that way. He has forgotten the words over the years, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to care. Eskel hums the melody as he plays. Across from him, Jaskier shuts his eyes and sways. 

Around the time the second chorus would come, Jaskier stands. Eskel’s hands freeze on the strings, feeling as though he has touched something without permission. The bard settles down behind him and leans against his back. Ever so quietly, he says, “Don’t stop.”

Eskel plucks at the strings again. He’s more hesitant this time, unsure of why Jaskier moved, yet not willing to break the spell that his unpracticed fingers have cast around their fire. He hums again, and this time, Jaskier sings along. 

The bard’s voice is low and dark. It cracks against the words in a few spots, as if overcome with emotion. It’s nothing like the singing Eskel heard at the Countess’ mansion. This version of Jaskier is raw and open. But the best part, the part that makes Eskel’s fingers tremble on the strings, is the fact that he can _feel_ Jaskier sing. He can feel the vibrations of his voice where the bard is pressed against him, thrumming and powerful even through layers of cloth and armor. 

The song plays out and Eskel lets the lute fall through slack fingers. Jaskier’s singing stops. Now that the music is over, Eskel is struck by the sudden fear that Jaskier will move away. He doesn’t think he could stand it. 

He doesn’t have to. Jaskier turns around and pulls Eskel into the space between his legs, wrapping his arms around Eskel’s chest. He’s so _close._

“Thank you, Eskel. That was wonderful.”

A shudder works its way down his spine. He groans, the sound crawling out of some hidden, broken place within him that has not been touched in decades. Jaskier’s hands pull him back and Eskel lets himself fall. The bard takes his weight without complaint. Pushes him down until Eskel’s head is in his lap. 

Lute-calloused fingers drag through his hair. Just one hand, because the other is held against his chest, keeping him tethered to the ground. If it wasn’t there, Eskel might just float away. 

Jaskier sings. Not of monsters or adventure, but of home, and comfort, and safety. The vibrations of it shoot through Eskel’s soul. He falls asleep to songs of peace, with hands on his body and not a fear in his mind. 

What is there to fear, if Jaskier’s arms are around him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably going to have 2 or 3 more chapters. As always, thank you so much for reading, and please feel free to drop any thoughts/questions/writing prompts in the comments!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Witcher OST is tearing me apart, holy shit. The White Wolf's song does NOT need to be sung alone

They break camp to the tune of Jaskier’s humming. Eskel puts out the fire. He slides on his armor, swords heavy across his back. It’s a bright, brilliant spring morning, the air itself alight with new life. Eskel helps Jaskier onto the horse and drapes an arm around his waist. It feels right. 

A few hours of riding brings them to a collection of homes too small to be called a village, but small or not, they have a monster problem. The townspeople speak of hideous shrieks and a beautiful woman who turn their dreams to nightmares. Bruxa. 

He meets with the town’s leader- a wizened old woman who invites him to her home. 

“Can you help us, witcher?”

Most vampires are affected by the sun, but not bruxae. It’s a blessing that Eskel can deal with these in daylight. “I can.”

The woman bows her head in thanks. “We don’t have much here to pay ye with, but we can feed and house ye for the night. Your bard, too.”

It’s more than Eskel was expecting. He agrees with ease and goes to find Jaskier. The bard is sitting beneath a tree, playing a shorter, tamer version of one of his adventure ballads for the group of children that have gathered around him. How he manages to stir up crowds so quickly is beyond Eskel. 

He explains the situation and Jaskier leaps to his feet, singing abandoned. “What are you doing?” Eskel demands. 

“Coming with you, obviously.”

Eskel is about to argue when Geralt’s words from that winter echo back to him. 

_The fucking idiot doesn’t know what’s good for him. Can’t keep him away from battles unless I tie him down. Last time I tried that, he sulked for a week._

Maybe not, then. Surely Jaskier will stay far enough away from the fight to protect himself. He’s not crazy.

…

Jaskier is fucking crazy. It’s an hour later, deep in the woods, when a beautiful, dark haired woman strides out from behind a tree. Eskel doesn’t see her, not until it’s too late. All he hears is Jaskier say, “Why hello! Are you lost?” followed by a piercing, monstrous scream.

Eskel whirls just in time to see Jaskier fly backward, propelled by the bruxa’s wail, his spine crunching as he collides with a tree. Red sweeps across Eskel’s vision. His body quakes with rage and he launches himself forward, casting Quen to block the monster’s second scream. 

She dances away from the edge of his silver sword. Into the underbrush they crash, decades of training the only thing that stop Eskel from tripping. There’s an anger in his veins that he hasn’t felt before. The bruxa screams again and he deflects it, but all he can really hear is the snap of Jaskier’s body hitting hard wood, the little whimper he let out when he fell. 

The bruxa comes at him with her claws. She’s agile, and fast. 

He’s faster. 

Eskel spins out of the way. He lets the bruxa sail past him and catches her in the stomach mid-leap, silver slicing through her vicious form in a single blow. The monster falls, and Eskel is at Jaskier’s side before her body hits the ground. 

“Jaskier-“ he gasps out. His pulse is too fast, almost that of a normal man’s. He drops his sword on the dirt and kneels down, pulling Jaskier’s head onto his lap. The bard’s eyes flutter open as he groans. The wave of relief that washes over Eskel would have brought him to his knees if he weren’t there already. 

“That lady,” Jaskier murmurs wetly, “does _not_ like me.”

Eskel bows forward until their foreheads are touching. His hands are fisted in the silk of Jaskier’s chemise. It’s such a silly, ridiculous thing to wear on the road. Silly, and so much like Jaskier that it hurts. He focuses on how it feels against his fingers fearing that, if he doesn’t, the weight of fear on his back will crush him. 

“You idiot,” he chokes out. 

“I know.” A hand reaches up to touch Eskel’s face, and the voice that comes with it is soft. “I’m fine, Eskel. A nasty throw, maybe a scratch or two, nothing worse than that.” 

Jaskier scoots away to sit up, but Eskel can’t let go of him. He moves with the bard, pulling him up and onto his lap to hold him close. To make sure he’s still whole. 

This panic, this fear in Eskel’s bones, is terrifying because of how _new_ it is. He’s used to monsters and blood, used to swinging his sword and accepting that maybe, just maybe, this time he won’t make it out alive. The Path is what he was raised to follow. But this? Going into a fight with the knowledge that it’s up to him to keep Jaskier safe? He doesn’t know how Geralt can stand it. 

Strong, unbroken hands tangle in his hair and tug. 

“Eskel. I’m alright.” Sunshine seeps into Jaskier’s smell, breaking through the metallic scent of pain. “In my defense, I didn’t know that the very beautiful, very lost young lady was some kind of demon-beast-thingy.”

“Vampire,” Eskel corrects. 

“Vampire,” Jaskier agrees. “See, this is why all that witchery knowledge of yours is so helpful. I never would’ve guessed vampire, what with the screeching and the claws and all.”

His voice is too jovial for someone who just got slammed against a tree. The absurdity of it breaks through Eskel’s panic and he hauls in a deep breath. 

“Can you stand?”

“Of course I can-“ Jaskier tries to get up and his left leg collapses beneath him. Eskel catches him before he can fall. “I can mostly stand.”

He could probably make it back to town without much trouble. Probably. Eskel isn’t quite sure how fragile humans really are, and he isn’t keen on finding out. He swings his sword into its sheath, picks Jaskier up as gently as he can- one arm under his legs, one behind his back- and beings the long trudge home.

…

On the outskirts of a town in the heart of Aedirn, Geralt lops off a kikimore’s head. It slams to the ground and the young woman beside it, who was about to become its next victim, pukes into the swamp water. Geralt waits until she’s done, then offers her a hand up.

To his surprise, she takes it. 

Rattled, she leads him back to town. Her family meets them at the road, throwing arms around their daughter and weeping with joy. The monster is dead. The humans are safe. Geralt turns to go. 

“Wait!” It’s the mother. She is a tall woman, skin tan from days spent working the fields. Her long hair is tied back with colorful ribbons, falling nearly to her knees. She approaches him with hesitance, but not terror. “You’re him, aren’t you? The one the songs are about?”

Geralt does not know how to respond, so he simply stares. He’s used to people knowing him, or at least his title. Butcher. Killer, monster, mutant. 

“You’re the White Wolf,” the woman says, and she throws her arms around him. 

The hug is brief, and, on Geralt’s side, stiff. But her scent is one of gratitude, of happiness, and Geralt soaks it in, stunned. She pulls away a moment later. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “We don’t have any money, but-“ The woman reaches up to her hair and pulls away two ribbons. One black, one a rich purple. She presses them into Geralt’s palm. “For you, and that bard of yours. May the gods lay blessings at your feet, witcher. May they repay the kindness you have shown us this day.”

She returns to her family, leaving Geralt with Roach. He feels as though the world has collapsed beneath him, and he does not know how to stop it. He doesn’t think he wants to. 

Geralt rides away. He returns to his life of fighting and killing, of being spat on in pubs and leered at on the street. Of longing for Jaskier, wherever he is now. Geralt bears the insults. He walks the Path. 

But next time Geralt tears apart a monster, there is a single black ribbon tied to the hilt of his sword.

…

“Are you sure?”

Eskel is perched on the edge of his chair, wary, but somehow also feeling like a chastised child as the farmer whose house he’s in sighs down at him. 

“Certain. You’ve done us a great service, and your friend needs to stay off his leg for the night. We don’t mind housing you, long as you two don’t mind sharing a bed.”

“We don’t mind,” Eskel assures her. At least, he doesn’t mind. Jaskier probably won’t either, and isn’t that a thought? A human, sharing Eskel’s bed without fear or complaint. It’s almost as much of a miracle as strangers taking them in for the night. “Thank you.”

The farmer’s face softens. “’Course. That bard of yours works wonders. I swear he’s got half the town eating out of his hand already.”

Eskel believes it. He thanks her again, then begs exhaustion and goes to find his bard. 

Jaskier is stretched out on top of their bed for the night, leg above the covers, strumming idly at the lute in his hands. There isn’t a tune really, just music, and Eskel is grateful to have something that breaks the silence besides the roar of the fire behind them.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, bending to check the bard's bandages. The cuts Jaskier got from his altercation with the bruxa weren’t deep, but they still needed tending to. Eskel is careful as he peels back the cloth to look for infection, all too aware of his own strength. He can’t stand the thought of pushing too hard and accidentally injuring Jaskier further. No matter how quickly he seems to be healing. 

“Right as rain, darling. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before, and this mattress is lovely.” Jaskier sighs dramatically, scooting back against the pillows. The bed is as nice as most inns’, and certainly more comfortable than the dirt they slept on last night. “I might sleep for a week after all this excitement, but that would be overstaying our welcome, and I am nothing if not polite, really, so we must be on our way. And- Eskel, stop fussing.”

Eskel hadn’t noticed he was fussing, but he is. He’s fiddling with the loose edge of one of the bandages and digging sharp fingernails into the meat of his thigh. “Sorry.”

Jaskier, for once, is silent. He catches Eskel’s eye and keeps it there, filling the space between them with unspoken meaning. It’s so _tender_ , Eskel can’t take it. He feels his years of trained stoicism slip away under cornflower blue eyes; stripped bare, seen and understood, but not judged. A question spills past his lips, unbidden. 

“Why?”

The bard raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to have to be more specific, dear, because that might be the vaguest thing I’ve ever been asked, and I travel with Geralt.”

Eskel wants to tear his eyes away, to hide. He can’t. Flickers of light from the fire dance in Jaskier’s eyes, mixing there with fond confusion. 

“Why do you stay? In this life, with Geralt? Why ask to travel with me when all it means is rough nights outside, and shitty meals, and, and-“ Eskel’s fingers dig into his thigh as deep as they can go without ripping the material. “Why are you _here?_ ”

Jaskier regards him with something akin to sadness in his eyes. But there’s something warm there, too. Something joyful. 

“Why do I stay with Geralt?” he echoes. “Because I love him. As deeply as one soul can love another. I would take a sword to the heart any day if it kept him safe, and I know he would do the same for me. How could I not stay, for love like that?”

“But-“ 

Jaskier shakes his head, and the protest dies on Eskel’s lips. “I won’t lie, I don’t love the rough nights. They’re not as bad as they used to be, though. Geralt has gotten better at staying in inns, and at bringing more comforts with us to make the road less unpleasant. But that’s not what you were asking.” He reaches down to take Eskel’s face in his hands, those eyes holding the witcher still as any spell, and slips his fingers into the violent grip Eskel has on his own leg. “Why am I _here?_ For adventure. For stories. I am here to let the world tear me open and spit me back out how it pleases, because I cannot imagine a better way to _live._ ”

Eskel is shaking. Falling apart, here in the arms of the most foolish bard he has ever met. Foolish, and brave. Too perceptive for his own damn good. Eskel holds himself up on shaky arms and watches the firelight dance in Jaskier’s eyes. “This life will burn you,” he whispers. 

Jaskier tugs, just once, and Eskel collapses. His body falls against his will. His arms grasp at Jaskier desperately, hungrily, and he buries his face in the bard’s hair, pulling him close as though Eskel can protect him. Arms come around him in return. Strong and warm and unafraid. Jaskier’s lips ghost over his ear as he speaks his answer. 

“If this life is doomed to burn me, dear witcher, I shall light the pyre myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best. The BEST. Thank you so much for the support- it means the world to me!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you in the comments asking for all the witchers to end up together at some point- soon, I promise.

Two weeks later, Jaskier’s leg is completely healed. He and Eskel are halfway across Sodden by then, sleeping mostly on the road and sharing a bedroll every night. Jaskier is content, glowingly so, but he misses Geralt terribly, and Eskel hears of a beast further south that he decides is too dangerous for company. 

The two are lying in bed, wrapped up together, when the time comes to part. Eskel rises with the dawn and Jaskier rises with him, unwilling to let the witcher slip away without a proper goodbye. With his bags packed and his armor on, Eskel turns to his bard. 

“May I find you again?” he asks. “Someday?”

Jaskier pulls him close. He’s astounded how easily Eskel lets himself be moved, unsure of what he did to earn the trust of a man so accustomed to rejection. It warms his chest, and he hopes that Eskel can smell it, can understand the truth in his answer. “Any day,” he swears. “I look forward to it.”

Eskel nods. He leans forward to brush his lips against Jaskier’s cheek; so soft they’re barely there. Jaskier is beaming when he pulls away. He watches as the witcher leaves their room, follows the streak of black out the window as he rides away, and settles down to sleep once more with the smile still bright on his face.

…

Geralt finds him a few days later, just as Jaskier knew he would. The town he and Eskel parted in is more of a city than anything, with plenty of taverns to perform in and enough amusements to keep Jaskier busy for weeks. He makes sure he’s seen walking the streets, leaving no doubt in the people’s minds that this is the White Wolf’s bard. Word will travel quickly, and when it does, it will reach Geralt’s ears, sending him across the continent to Jaskier’s side.

Whispers come to him in a tavern one night of a slain selkiemore a few miles away. Jaskier knows what that means. He brings his lute and sits on the edge of the town’s main road, playing love ballads into the empty night air until he hears the thunder of hooves and the clatter of weaponry that means his witcher has returned to him once more. 

“Jaskier,” comes the low rumble. He’s swept from his feet into a searing, filthy kiss that leaves no question as to what Geralt plans for the night. His lute falls to the ground as he raises his hands to hold Geralt closer. Jaskier’s voice is halfway to wrecked by the time he pulls away. 

“Good to see you too, Geralt. Why don’t we go find a-“ His breath hitches as Geralt’s hands find their way under his chemise. “A room, love. _Now_.”

…

Geralt drops his head between Jaskier’s sweat slicked shoulder blades and breathes. Sunshine and honey sweep over him, refreshing after so many nights apart. It terrifies him, how much he needs this. Every time he’s apart from Jaskier he tells himself that their reunion will be casual, easy, and every time his plans are swept away by the all-consuming wave of affection and lust that crashes over him as soon as he lays eyes on tousled brown hair above colorful silk doublets.

He wonders, sometimes, how he managed to walk the Path for so long without this. It seems that he should have tired years before now, should have slowed down just a fraction too much and gotten his head taken off by the nearest thing with claws and teeth. Geralt thanks the gods that he did not. That he survived long enough to have Jaskier in his arms. 

“What do you think, Geralt? Geralt?”

Lifting his head, Geralt tries to remember what Jaskier was talking about. It’s no use- he wasn’t paying attention. 

“Hmmm?”

Jaskier slaps his arm lightly. “You oaf. I knew you weren’t listening to me.”

“And you spoke anyway.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier has the decency to look bashful. “I do that a lot. And you only pay attention half the time anyway, so I don’t know why I bother.” He huffs out a sigh, but the smile on his face ruins it. “I was asking what you think about going to Skellige for a while. I’m sure they have plenty of monsters out there, and I would so love to see the ocean. It’s been quite a while since the last time I was there. It’ll be beautiful in summer, too, so-“

Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, the only way he has found after fourteen years of research to reliably shut Jaskier up. “Skellige is fine.”

“Good. Great, actually.” A dopey grin works its way across Jaskier’s face, followed by a spike in the smell of honey wine. “ _Geralt,_ ” he murmurs, rolling over to press Geralt into the mattress. And that’s the end of talking for the night.

…

They go to Skellige. Geralt slays a few water monsters with enough teeth to tear an army apart. He takes a particularly strange one and makes it into a necklace for Jaskier. It’s ugly, and kind of gross, and Jaskier wears it every day.

Spring merges slowly into summer, days lengthening as Jaskier switches out his layers for thin, breezy shirts that dance in the ocean wind. Geralt’s white hair practically gleams in the summer sun. Jaskier’s skin picks up a pleasant tan that makes his eyes shine blue as the sky above them. 

A town on the coast kicks them out, unwilling to serve “a witcher and his whore.” Geralt nearly guts the man that said it, more out of fury over Jaskier’s honor than his own, but Jaskier talks him out of it with pleading eyes and quite a bit of shouting. They camp on the road that night. It’s rough, and hot. Much less pleasant than an inn, especially with the knowledge of _why_ they’re camping hanging over their heads like a particularly nasty insult. But when Jaskier slides into his lap after dinner, kissing like he’s drowning and muttering compliments against bare skin, Geralt can’t find it in himself to care. 

Some towns welcome them. The people have heard of the White Wolf and his bard. Rare as it is, sometimes Geralt is invited in with open arms and promises of good food and plenty of coin, if only he can take care of a few monsters. Sometimes, the heads he brings back as proof of contract are met with cheers instead of revulsion. 

Jaskier learns new songs, and writes some of his own. More often than not, he collapses into bed after a night of dancing around bonfires and singing lyrics that would make a brothel owner blush. He smells of sun and sand and _joy._ Geralt presses close on those nights, soaking in the feeling of Jaskier’s body, hard and real against him. 

Geralt picks up new scars. There’s a gash on his right hip from some ghouls that he wasn’t fast enough to dodge. Three little dots on his left shoulder from a bruxa’s claws. Two matching lines decorate one of his thighs, courtesy of a monster he could not identify but killed anyway. Those two would be a lot worse if the local healer had not welcomed them, but she did, and he thanked her heartily for it in his own gruff way. 

He doesn’t mind the scars. They are reminders of who he is, of his trade as a witcher. And if Jaskier likes to run his lips over them, or to touch them and then place gentle fingers over Geralt’s pulse, as though to remind himself his witcher still lives and breathes- well, Geralt doesn’t mind that, either. 

When they tire of seafood and crashing waves, they move on to Verden. Jaskier debuts new songs, most of them epics, some of which contain stories Geralt does not recognize. Only when he sits down one night to listen, _really_ listen, does he realize that they are about his brothers. His brothers, who have carved their names on Jaskier’s heart just as surely as Geralt, albeit in a different way. Warmth seeps through him as he listens, and it isn’t from the ale. 

Those songs are on his mind when he and Jaskier separate once more. A nobleman in Kerack requests Jaskier’s presence at his court for a week of revelry in honor of his marriage. Jaskier chooses to go. On the morning he is set to leave, Geralt strides into the nearest mage’s shop and slams down a silver coin. 

“I need to send a message.”

…

A flash of green light has Lambert on his feet in seconds. Magic. He can smell it. Cautiously, he approaches the spot where he saw the light, a scant few feet from his campfire. There are no beasts he can see, no magical symbols that spell trouble. A tiny scrap of paper lies on the ground, marked by a wax seal that bears the imprint of a familiar wolf pendant.

_Jaskier will be at Lord Slater’s estate in Kerack next week. Keep him safe._

Lambert doesn’t wait until dawn. He packs his bags, kicks out his fire, and sets off down the road feeling lighter than he has in months. 

Once he’s in Kerack- a mere three days later, the fastest he has ever traveled- it’s easy to track down Lord Slater. A few days after that, when Slater’s guests begin to arrive, it’s even easier to track down Jaskier. He follows the smell of comfort. 

Jaskier is, somehow, more colorful than the last time Lambert saw him. He’s sun kissed and heat flushed in the summer’s night. The patterns on his doublet are picked out in metallic thread, flashing in the torchlight as he jokes and plays his way through the party. His lute is there, of course. It has a single purple ribbon tied to one of the tuning knobs at the top. 

Lambert waits to approach him, content with watching for a bit before he’s noticed. The revelers love Jaskier. They cheer as he sings, smiles loose from music and fine wine, and Jaskier grins back at them, all sunshine and teeth. 

But no smile is as bright as the one on Jaskier’s face when he spots Lambert. 

He finishes up the set with one final song, eyes on Lambert the entire time. The guests that reach out to him are brushed away as Jaskier saunters over to Lambert, face alight with joy. Arms outstretched. 

Lambert didn’t wear armor to the banquet. He figured it wouldn’t be necessary, if he weren’t on the job. It would stand out. It would be hot, and uncomfortable. All true reasons, all honest. 

Who is he kidding? 

Lambert didn’t wear armor to the banquet because it would have gotten in the way of _this_. Of the heat of Jaskier’s skin though his shirt and the firmness of his chest and the almost-painful ache of a hug so tight Lambert thinks it might break him. Calloused fingers come up to cradle Lambert’s face as Jaskier says, with utter elation in his voice, “You found me again.” Then, softer, “Welcome back.”

After the party, they retire to Lambert’s room. Jaskier strips out of his finery, chattering away about Lady Slater’s cooking, and one of his necklaces catches Lambert’s eye. 

“Is that a tooth?”

Jaskier throws his head back on a laugh. “Do you like it? Geralt made it for me this summer, in Skellige.” 

Of course it’s from Geralt. Lambert doesn’t know why he bothered asking. “How were the islands?”

Jaskier, fully undressed now, besides his smallclothes, throws himself onto the bed like he belongs there. He gestures for Lambert to get undressed as well, and Lambert complies. Shame still crawls up his throat at how much he craves what’s about to happen, but it isn’t as bad as the first time. There is no need to deny himself any more than the world has already denied him. 

Lambert crawls into bed and settles himself into the space between Jaskier’s legs. He leans against Jaskier’s chest, skin to blessed skin, and lets Jaskier’s hands trace over his body, slipping into dreams with whispered words of ocean waves in his ears. 

That’s the second time. 

It isn’t the last.

…

Eskel finds him again as the first leaves of autumn flutter to the ground. They camp by the side of the road and Eskel pulls a satchel free from his saddlebags to offer to Jaskier. It’s full of spices from every corner of the continent, as carefully labeled and organized as the witcher’s potions. They eat like kings.

A drowner leaves a scratch down one of Eskel’s calves and Jaskier sews him up. In and out dips the needle. In and out Eskel breathes. In and out, gentler than he has ever felt, Jaskier’s fingers more careful with each knot than Eskel ever is with himself. It aches, this closeness. Eskel prays for its return every time it ends. 

When the wound has closed enough to stand it, they jump into a stream together. The water is freezing but Jaskier’s body is warm. Eskel welcomes the fingers that thread through his hair, accompanied by a voice that teases him for its unruliness, and he resolves, next time they’re in town, to buy some oils for it that smell of the same spices as Jaskier’s skin. 

He finds one that’s close, but no artificial scent compares. 

They separate in Cidaris. They swing back together in Temeria. 

Jaskier is filled to the brim with a feeling he cannot place. Contentment, he thinks one day, but that isn’t quite right. It’s not happiness. Not pleasure. It soaks into his bones. It runs under his skin like lightning one moment and swirls around his throat the next. He does not name the feeling until the seventh time that year when he and Geralt travel their separate ways. 

Geralt disappears over the horizon, his figure swallowed by the setting sun. Jaskier knows he will return in a week. He will ride back into town like a god from the old ballads and sweep Jaskier into his arms without a second thought. The sun rises. The sun sets. Geralt will return. 

He is alone for a single day. Then Eskel finds him, lips brimming with stories for Jaskier’s songs, and Jaskier finally figures out what that feeling is. Or rather, what the feeling _isn’t._

Jaskier is not lonely. He hasn’t been lonely in months- a year, nearly. Not since the past winter, when three witchers lived together in Kaer Morhen and he only knew to miss one of them. 

It will hurt more this year, he knows, to be parted from them all. But he also knows that, as soon as the mountains thaw and warmth returns to the air, they will be back in his arms. The sun rises. The sun sets. His witchers will return.

…

Purple light flashes in front of Roach. She doesn’t startle, of course not, and Geralt pats the side of her neck as he dismounts. He has sent enough letters by mage to recognize the flare of magic.

The note is a single sheet of folded paper. It contains two lines of orderly handwriting. Eskel’s hand. 

_Bring the bard this winter. If he wants._

Geralt is only a little horrified to find himself smiling down at the note. His brother has read his mind. He feeds the paper to his fire that night and sets out early the next morning, sliding into a booth at the local tavern just in time to catch the tail end of Jaskier’s performance. 

He waits until they’re undressed and relaxing by the fire before bending his mouth to Jaskier’s ear. “Come with me to Kaer Morhen this winter.”

“Really?” The sharp scent of excitement floods Geralt’s senses. 

“Yes. It is long past time.”

Jaskier turns to him with eyes that could put the sun to shame. “Geralt,” he whispers. He drops kisses on Geralt’s forehead. His cheeks. The side of his neck. Jaskier presses his mouth to every inch of skin he can reach, and between kisses he murmurs, “My dear, sweet Geralt. My heart. I would love nothing more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading and commenting! I love hearing your thoughts, and I promise to answer any questions/prompt ideas you leave for me. I hope you all enjoyed!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is NOT the last chapter of this, just so you guys know. There will be at least one more of the boys at Kaer Morhen, and probably an epilogue, too, because I fell in love with writing this and I feel like the group needs a little more time together before I wrap it up. Hope y'all are ok with that ;)

Eskel and Lambert showed up to Kaer Morhen three weeks earlier than usual. Vesemir was a little surprised to see Eskel ride in before the air turned truly cold, and even more surprised when Lambert followed a day later. After making sure that neither were being chased by a beast or vengeful sorcerer, he brushed the odd behavior off as the product of a difficult year. 

But the oddities did not stop with their early arrival. 

Both witchers went about their daily tasks with single-minded focus. They cooked, chopped firewood, prepared potions, and trained- all with far fewer jokes or petty squabbles than Vesemir had come to expect at wintertime. Even stranger was the fact that Lambert and Eskel were cleaning. _Willingly._

Not the usual dusting that Kaer Morhen got after so long with only one occupant. Not that at all. Every nook of the castle was scrubbed within an inch of its life. Eskel cleared the massive fireplace in the main hall as if every spot of ash were a personal offense. Lambert found a container of varnish from the gods only knew where and set about polishing every piece of wood in the castle until the place practically glowed with rich, earthen tones. 

Vesemir tried asking about the unusual behavior, but he was rebuffed. Questions about Eskel’s incessant firewood chopping were met with a cheeky, “What, don’t you want to be warm this winter?” Inquiries into Lambert’s cleaning were turned on their head with, “I thought you wanted us to clean? I can stop, if it bothers you that much.” 

He had a point about the cleaning. They both did, actually, and that was precisely the problem. All of their clever answers felt rehearsed. As if they knew they would be acting strangely and had planned out responses for any concern Vesemir might raise. It irked him, but he could find nothing to complain about. Soon enough, he gave up searching for answers. They would come to him or they wouldn’t. Either way, the chores got done. 

Now, though, Vesemir wonders if he should have pressed more. The castle gleams. The stable is immaculate. There is enough firewood stacked in a shed outside to heat the entire castle year round for a decade, and Lambert and Eskel are restless. They scent the air constantly, sending furtive glances to the front of the castle whenever they think Vesemir isn’t looking. Sparring and weapons practice is the only time of day he can get some gods damned _peace_ , and even that is tainted by the knowledge that whatever is eating at his boys has not gone away. It has merely been redirected. 

Vesemir is no fool. It’s clear enough that the tension in the air comes from expectation. Lambert and Eskel are waiting for something. The only question now is… what?

…

Jaskier insists that he and Geralt make a final stop at the city nearest Kaer Morhen before making their final ascent. “I need to get some supplies,” he explains. Geralt lets out a grunt of confusion.

“The castle is stocked. We have food and drink plenty for the winter. What do you need?”

Jaskier shakes his head in amusement before dancing away towards the city market, a rather large bag of coin bouncing at his hip. “Sometimes it’s not about need, darling. It’s about _want."_

Unbeknownst to Geralt, Jaskier has been plotting this shopping spree for weeks. He and Geralt slept in the woods more often than usual, and when they did stay at inns, Jaskier made sure to play often, play long, and spend as little as possible on ale. Not his favorite few weeks, to be sure, but he has plans. Plans that need money. 

He vanishes into the market stalls. Geralt stays at the inn, like Jaskier knew he would, because one hour of shopping takes more social interaction than Geralt usually deals with in a month. Other than Jaskier, of course, but he hardly counts.

Hours later, Jaskier stumbles back into their room. Night has fallen, and Geralt waits for him by firelight, eyes turned suspiciously to the two large bundles and one hard case in Jaskier’s arms. “We are climbing a mountain tomorrow, Jaskier. We can’t carry anything extravagant.”

“I know,” Jaskier says brightly. “I’ll carry it, don’t you worry.”

They both know it’s a lie. Geralt turns away with a sigh, already thinking of all the apologies he’s going to owe Roach for the extra load. Jaskier drops his bundles by the door and slides onto Geralt’s lap. Heavy hands fall on his hips as he tilts Geralt’s chin, forcing the witcher to meet his eyes. “I’m _excited,_ ” he breathes. 

The look on Geralt’s face isn’t quite a smile, but a light flares to life behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. “As am I.”

“I’ll finally get to see you without all the armor.”

Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “You see me without it every night.”

Jaskier shifts forward, putting more weight on Geralt as he leans in to kiss along his jaw. “Yes, but the light during the day is so much better. Besides, I can hardly imagine you going more than a few hours without strapping it on and swinging your sword at something.”

“There will be sparring matches. We have to stay in shape.”

A wicked smile settles on Jaskier’s lips. “Which will be a _delight_ to watch, I assure you.” He worms his way out of Geralt’s arms and taunts him forward, standing just out of reach until Geralt heaves himself off the floor and follows Jaskier to bed. “I want to see you relaxed, love. Nothing to kill. Nothing trying to kill you. Just us, and your brothers, and an entire winter to do nothing but make love and drink wine.” He rolls over onto Geralt’s stomach, settling himself there without fear. Geralt can take his weight. “Can you imagine it?”

…

Geralt can imagine it. He has imagined nothing else since autumn.

…

The day dawns cold and bright. Eskel and Lambert rise soon after the sun, cooking breakfast with sleep-mussed hair before setting about their daily tasks. True winter will be upon them soon- the kind that blocks mountain passes and freezes men to death, if they are stupid enough to be caught in it.

Eskel spends the morning polishing his already spotless weapons while Lambert organizes their food stores for the second time that week. Vesemir spends it watching them both, his gaze settling on the gates as often as theirs. Their expectation is contagious, it seems, though he has no clue what they are expecting. 

Lunch is a quiet affair. Vesemir whiles away the afternoon with a book as Lambert and Eskel spar in the courtyard. They listen to the crash of steel on steel, the grunts of exertion when one of them lands a good hit. Wind whistles through the castle, high and reedy, heralding a storm to come. And underneath it all, barely loud enough for Lambert to hear above his breath, comes the chime of a lute. 

Eskel drops his sword. Lambert twists aside, sending his weapon crashing into the dirt instead of his brother’s head. They freeze. Enhanced hearing is stretched to its limit as both men focus on the light, sweet sound of strings being plucked a few hundred meters away. Their eyes meet and then they’re running, sprinting, nearly tripping over themselves as they bolt to the front of the castle. 

Lambert rounds the corner first, Eskel a beat behind him. Across the courtyard, Geralt swings off his horse and says something to the man at his side. Jaskier turns, as if in slow motion, and a smile splits his face as he shouts, “Lambert! Eskel!”

He drops his lute to the side just in time. Then his arms are full as Lambert pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, sweeping him off his feet and spinning him around like he’s weightless. Jaskier gasps, but his feet are back on the ground before the shock can truly register and he’s laughing, turning his face to the sky as Lambert mumbles his name. 

Lambert pulls away a second later, replaced by Eskel. Jaskier receives him warmly, threading his fingers through Eskel’s hair as the witcher buries his face in Jaskier’s neck. “’S good to see you,” Eskel says, and a hot rush of joy runs down his spine as Jaskier’s arms tighten around him. 

“It’s good to see you, too.”

They greet Geralt as well, with claps on the back and easy smiles, falling into the rhythm of being together as if it hasn’t been a year since they saw each other. Geralt leads Roach to the stables and Lambert sweeps Jaskier off his feet again, carrying him like something delicate and setting him before the fire that rages in the main hall. Jaskier sheds his layers off, stiff from hiking in the cold, and reaches out for Lambert, settling in his lap with a sigh of contentment. 

“You witchers know how to hide a fortress. I was worried we’d freeze on the way up here and no one would find our bodies until spring.”

“I was almost concerned,” Eskel says, dropping down next to them, “but Geralt knows we’d kill him if the two of you showed up late.”

Jaskier laughs. He reaches out to brush back a lock of Eskel’s hair. There’s no practical need for the gesture. Eskel can only assume that Jaskier does it because he _wants_ to, and no matter how many beds they share, that knowledge will never grow old.

…

Geralt watches them from the threshold. His bard and his brothers, curled up around the fire. Touching and chatting like old friends. He was worried, in the dark parts of his heart, that this winter together would bring out an ugly side of himself. The part that acts like a wounded animal, snarling and thrashing to keep dangerous hands away from the one bright spark in his life.

In the early days, he was constantly, achingly terrified that something would pull Jaskier away from him. A beautiful woman in a tavern, perhaps, or some young nobleman with table manners and clear, unscarred skin. Surely the excitement of adventure would wear off eventually. Jaskier would get sick of the growling and gore- his songs would be written, his fame assured, and he would melt away in the night like a mirage, leaving Geralt to walk the Path alone. 

He knows better now. Knows that Jaskier sees something in _Geralt_ \- not just the adventure, not just the road. His bard stays by his side out of the same love and devotion that sears Geralt’s veins like a potion- sweet and painful and present. Always a hairsbreadth away. 

Eskel and Lambert are… brighter than Geralt. In so many ways. They laugh easier, smile easier. The fact that they took Geralt’s offer and worked up the nerve to approach Jaskier on their own hints at a confidence that Geralt never possessed. Not with something like this. Monsters, he can handle, and idiotic villagers, too. But matters of the heart? Of yearning and touch? Of vulnerability? Jaskier taught him those. 

As excited as he was for the winter with his brothers, apprehension still controlled him. That old fear reared its head to whisper all the ways in which he is not enough- not enough for Jaskier, not enough for love, not enough to stand up to the fire that is his brothers. Jaskier spending time with them when Geralt was elsewhere was one thing, but he thought he would fade away like so much dust when placed directly next to them. 

He was wrong. 

Jaskier settles back into Lambert like he has always been there, reaches out to touch Eskel without a glimmer of uncertainty. He fits here. Even with his impractical clothes and his sappy poetry, somehow Jaskier fits right in amongst the witchers in their hall on the mountain. The old fear shrivels up as Geralt watches them. It dies a bloody death. His bard and his brothers are together. Geralt is _whole._

The low tinge of cardamom reaches Geralt’s nostrils. He turns to find Vesemir behind him, watching the scene unfold. They clasp hands- as affectionate as the old man gets. Across the hall, Jaskier launches into a story involving jilted lovers and quite a bit of liquor, and Lambert drapes his arms around him in a casual gesture of intimacy.

“It seems I am the only one who has not met this bard of yours, Geralt.” His words seem severe, but Vesemir’s tone is light. A tiny bit bewildered, too. Geralt has had years to acclimate to Jaskier’s casual affection and he’s still shocked to see it in action. He can’t imagine how Vesemir feels. 

“You can meet him now.”

Vesemir hums and steps into the hall, winter boots letting out a thud on the wood floor. The three men by the fire pause their conversation. Eskel’s mouth is pressed in an uncertain line, and Lambert’s grip on Jaskier loosens. Geralt understands their caution. Vesemir has never denied them care, or even love, but his expression of it comes in harsh words of criticism meant to save their lives in battle. He did not teach them vulnerability, or gentleness, yet here they are seeking it in the arms of a human. 

If Jaskier notices the sudden tension in the air, he doesn’t let on. He shrugs out of Lambert’s grip and walks to meet Vesemir in the middle of the hall, walk as cocky and flamboyant as ever. “You must be Vesemir,” he says. 

“You are the bard who sings those songs about us.”

Jaskier winks, _winks_ , and bows with a flourish. “At your service.”

Vesemir eyes him up and down like he’s sizing up an opponent. Geralt knows that look. It cut him to the quick when he was young; always criticizing, always finding room for improvement. Jaskier bears it with grace. Finally, Vesemir meets Jaskier’s eyes and inclines his head. It’s slight enough that it would be easy to miss, but Geralt sees it, and from the widening of his brothers’ eyes, he knows they do, too. 

“I appreciate what you have done for the good name of our work,” Vesemir says. Dry though it is, for Vesemir it’s practically shouting praises from the rooftops. 

Jaskier, for his part, is vibrating out of his skin. “Thank you,” he exclaims. Then his face sobers and he makes a clear effort get himself under control. He reaches out his hand for Vesemir to shake. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”

Vesemir takes the hand, unsuspecting, and Jaskier _tugs._ Not hard. Not enough to pull a human off his feet, and certainly not a witcher. But it sets Vesemir off balance enough that he takes a step forward and winds up with Jaskier’s arms wrapped around him. 

It’s the world’s shortest hug- over before it really begins. Jaskier moves away a heartbeat later, dropping Vesemir’s hand with a soft smile. He looks past Vesemir’s shoulder at Geralt. “How’s Roach? Not too crushed from all my ‘extravagant’ belongings, is she?” 

“She’s fine. But you owe her a good brushing.” 

Geralt tries, and fails, not to watch Vesemir from the corner of his eye. His mentor has been stunned into silence. Geralt knows the feeling. He settles next to Eskel by the fire as Jaskier melts back into Lambert’s arms. Hope for complete acceptance is unrealistic. It will take time for Vesemir to adjust to how _much_ Jaskier can be. But the longer they talk- and the more Vesemir watches- something like understanding makes its home in Vesemir’s eyes. For now, that's more than enough.

…

They eat dinner around the fire. It’s a type of deer stew that Jaskier has never tried before, but clearly _someone_ at Kaer Morhen is a master chef, because it’s delicious. Jaskier’s money is on Vesemir.

Geralt’s mentor is not quite what Jaskier was expecting. He’s tough and grizzled like the rest of the witchers, yes, but there’s affection in his face that’s plain enough to see. Vesemir cares for his students, cares that they’re safe and well fed. Jaskier likes him already. 

Around midnight, when the long day of hiking has caught up to them, Jaskier and Geralt bid the others goodnight. Their room is upstairs. Simple, but spotless, and with a bed big enough to fit two, it looks like the perfect place to spend the winter. He and Geralt strip. They get in bed together, curled as close as they can get. Warm and secure, it is the safest they’ve both been in months. 

Jaskier lies awake. 

He loves Geralt. Loves him with a fierce, burning passion that scares Jaskier with its intensity sometimes, and he does not want anything to come between them. Knows nothing ever could, not if he has a say in it. And yet…

It doesn’t feel right to sleep beside Geralt alone when Lambert and Eskel are so close by. Jaskier has grown close with them over the past year. He knows the ache in their eyes, and he has taken great joy in relieving the pain however he can. That ache isn’t gone, he’s sure. They crave as much as they always have, but here, in the one place where they should feel most comfortable, neither man is willing to ask for that which they do not think themselves worthy of having. They defer to Geralt. Their fear tastes like ashes in Jaskier’s mouth.

“You aren’t asleep.”

Jaskier doesn’t need to turn to know how intently Geralt is staring at him. “Neither are you.”

“Hmmm.” Jaskier thinks that will be the end of it, but Geralt’s arm around him tightens and soft lips kiss behind his ear. “There is a room on the first floor with a larger bed,” he mutters. “Large enough for four.”

Jaskier inhales sharply. “Geralt, are you sure? I don’t want you to feel like I’m choosing- that I could _ever_ choose _anyone_ but you, because I love you so much, you must know-“

“I know. I’m sure.”

Covers rustle as Jaskier spins around to look into Geralt’s eyes. Their gold glows like embers in the darkness, lit by the dim light of the moon. “I love you,” he breathes. 

Geralt smiles at him- a tender, open thing that makes Jaskier’s insides melt. He brings their lips together in a lingering kiss before dropping his arms from Jaskier’s waist and sitting up. “Eskel is the second door on the right. Lambert is third on the left. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Jaskier rolls out of bed and shimmies on a pair of pants. He leans in for one more kiss before he slides out the door and heads for Eskel’s room. It only takes one knock for Eskel to open the door, still clothed and looking as miserable as Jaskier feels. 

“This is horrible,” Jaskier says. 

Eskel can only nod. Jaskier takes that as assent, pulling him into a brief hug before moving away and grabbing one wrist to drag Eskel down the hall behind him. Lambert’s door swings open before Jaskier can knock. His arms are filled with pillows and blankets, the bed behind him empty. “It is horrible,” he agrees, and that settles it. 

They stumble downstairs, a mess of limbs and linens, and Eskel leads them to a massive room where Geralt has stoked a fire to life. There is indeed a bed big enough for four- more a pallet than a proper mattress- but with all the blankets Geralt has piled on it, it should serve just fine. They can figure out something better tomorrow. 

Lambert’s eyes flick to Geralt, uncertain. “Are you…?”

A tense moment passes as Geralt works down what Jaskier is sure is shame. His discomfort is palpable, but not for the reason Lambert assumes. It’s the conversation Geralt hates, not the action of sharing a bed. Finally, he grunts out, “Yes,” and that’s enough for Jaskier. 

He falls back onto the mound of pillows and covers. “I, for one, am exhausted,” he declares. He’s still shirtless, because it’s comfortable, dammit, and he wishes one of them would get a fucking clue and cuddle up. The room is cold, even with the fire. “Are you coming?”

Eskel- sweet, bold Eskel- moves first. He tosses his shirt into a corner, followed quickly by his pants, and he spoons up behind Jaskier in nothing but his smallclothes. The tension in the air snaps. Dissolves. It melts away at Jaskier’s sigh. Lambert joins them, his head cushioned on Jaskier’s stomach, and Geralt falls into bed last, bracketing Jaskier from above; one arm slung across Jaskier’s chest, the other in his hair. 

Jaskier is _overwhelmed_ in the best way. Every part of him is warm, lit up by the witchers in his bed. Perhaps he should feel awkward, yet the only emotion in Jaskier’s chest is contentment. He’s safe. He’s held. He has an entire winter ahead of him to enjoy this; to soak up as much affection as he can and return it in kind. Jaskier shuts his eyes and lets the gentle winds of sleep carry him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave thoughts/opinions/writing prompts in the comments! All your kind words really mean a lot, and I love chatting with you guys. Thanks so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally frickin' decided how long this thing is going to be. One more chapter and an epilogue for the main fic, though I have a ton of ideas in this timeline, so there will definitely be shorter pieces with all the witchers coming out in the next few weeks. The last two parts of this fic should be out in the next three days or so, depending on how much time I have. For now- enjoy the chapter!

Jaskier wakes to an empty bed. He pushes himself up and runs a hand down his face, glancing about the sunlit room. It’s not a surprise to wake alone- witchers rarely sleep past dawn. Shaking sleep out of his limbs, he notices a pile of his clothes by the door. Simpler than his usual, just a cotton shirt and the pair of pants he keeps around for long winter nights on the road. Geralt must have dropped them off. 

He shrugs on the clothes and shuffles into the main hall. Vesemir is reading a book by the window. Geralt and his brothers are gathered around one of the tables with an obscene amount of food piled in front of them, arguing loudly about…ghouls? He drops onto the bench next to Geralt as Eskel declares, “That is _not_ how it happened.”

Jaskier picks a berry off of Geralt’s plate and tosses it into his mouth, savoring what will likely be the last fresh fruit of the year. “What’s going on?”

“Lambert is telling lies about a nest of ghouls we took out when we were younger.”

Lambert throws a chunk of bread at his brother’s head. “It did take you an hour.”

“Twenty minutes,” Eskel insists. “At most.”

Geralt drops an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, lips dragging against the shell of his ear as he rumbles, “It took an hour.”

He catches the fork that whizzes past his ear without looking, hands moving so fast that Jaskier can barely see them. “Fuck you,” Eskel spits. “We were in _training.”_

“And you were slow.”

Strong hands yank Jaskier away as Eskel leaps the table and tackles Geralt to the ground, cursing. “Let us talk, bard,” Vesemir says from behind him. “They need to work off some energy without breakable humans around.”

“They wouldn’t hurt me,” Jaskier argues, but he lets himself be led away all the same. Crashes and shouts echo from the dining hall as Vesemir brings him outside. A fire is blazing one of the pits, two plates of food set out next to it. This meeting was planned. Calculated. 

“Sit,” Vesemir says, and Jaskier does. A hawk screeches in the distance, its cry rolling down the mountainside like thunder. Silence settles over their fire. Jaskier eats. Vesemir watches. Years ago, the quiet would have prompted Jaskier to speak, to say something to fill the air. He knows this game now. It is the game of silence Geralt has always played, and here sits the man who taught it to him. Jaskier can wait. 

The question, when it comes, is unexpected. “Are you a lover to all three of them?” 

“No. Only Geralt.”

Vesemir nods as though Jaskier has confirmed something he already knew. “He cares for you a great deal.”

“I know.”

“Do you, bard?” Harsh eyes rake over Jaskier’s body; soft where witchers are hard, weak where witchers are strong. “Do you know what it means to hold the heart of not one of us, but three? You could wreak destruction on this mountain with a few well-placed words, and no amount of silver or steel could stop you.”

Jaskier thinks of Eskel’s terror after he killed the bruxa. Thinks of Lambert, eyes black and skin bloody at Jaskier’s feet. Of Geralt, and how many of his scars are from protecting Jaskier, from placing his body between Jaskier and a monster, uncaring how his own skin is marred so long as Jaskier’s is clean. 

“I could,” he agrees, because it is true. “I won’t.”

“No one seeks a witcher’s love.”

“Yet here I sit.” Jaskier meets Vesemir’s gaze. He does not flinch. He does not look away. “What say you to that?”

“I say you must have another reason. Information for those songs of yours. A notch in your belt.” 

Jaskier itches to shout that Geralt is not a _notch in his belt._ If he were, Jaskier wouldn’t be here. He would be a million miles away, bragging, not staring down the closest thing Geralt has to a father on the side of a freezing fucking mountain. But he knows that shouts, screams of indignation, are not the way to go here. Jaskier needs Vesemir to understand, and understanding takes words. Calm. He steadies his voice and tilts his head to the sky, letting the winter sun warm his face. 

“Have you known joy, Vesemir?” 

The hawk screeches again. Its cry fills the silence where Vesemir’s voice does not. 

Jaskier presses on. “Up here, in these lonely halls, have you known joy?” He drops his eyes from the sky and settles them on Vesemir’s face, his expression unreadable. “I have,” he says softly. “I have known joy so strong it stole the breath from my lungs.”

“You have a poet’s heart.”

“I have a fool’s heart,” Jaskier snaps. The words come out harsh, and that is how he meant them. Like a dagger to the throat. “My fool’s heart has been dragged across the coals more times than I can count, witcher. I never learn. I hand it over to every lover who graces my bed, hoping that maybe this time, _this time_ , will be the one that they do not tear it to pieces.” 

He shakes his head, kicking at a piece of wood in the fire. The mountain air burns as he breathes it in. “I cut my heart out and dropped it at Geralt’s feet the day I met him. Bloody and raw, like everything else he deals with. It would have been easy- so _easy_ for him to tear me apart.” Jaskier snaps his head back up. He wants Vesemir to see the fire in his eyes. “I expected him to, you know. I saw those huge swords and that frown he always wears, and I figured, why not? If I’m going to die of heartbreak, why not let a witcher do the breaking? It’d make for a great ballad.”

A wry smile flits across Jaskier’s face. “No one had ever done that, I don’t think- bared themselves so easily to him. And what did he do?” Jaskier turns his hands to the open air in a gesture of amazement. Incredulity seeps into his voice. “He _protected_ me. He saved me from a bunch of elves, and a griffin after that, and more drowners than I can remember, and a million other monsters that would have had me. Some of them human.” Jaskier heaves in a long breath to steady himself. “I have known joy in Geralt’s arms. Lambert’s and Eskel’s, too. I am here for that, for _them_ , because they wanted me to come. Nothing more.”

Jaskier stands. He shudders despite the chill of the fire, feeling drained. He picks up his plate, empty now. He turns to Vesemir, the man’s face a wall of stone. “Thank you for the food,” he says quietly, and leaves.

…

Vesemir disappears after breakfast. Eskel isn’t sure where he went, or why Jaskier returned to the hall looking so rattled, but he knows Vesemir will return for dinner. He never could stay away from a decent meal.

Their group is gathered around the table once more, mugs of ale in front of them. Eskel is still licking his wounds from the morning’s fight, which Geralt only won because he was _distracted_ , damn him, and Lambert is in the corner sharpening a sword. He decided that today was the day he would hone every sword in the armory. The low rasp of whetstone on steel ripples through the air like a song. 

Eskel has just begun a story about a siren he came across in Redania when Jaskier bolts upright from where he was slouching against Geralt. “That reminds me-“ He scrambles out of his seat and moves toward the doors, shouting, “One second,” as he disappears around the corner. 

Flashes from last night creep into Eskel’s mind as he watches him go. Sitting on the edge of his bed. Begging sleep to take him and knowing it won’t. The smell of sunshine drifting from Geralt’s room, reminding Eskel of all he wants but does not have the right to ask for. Jaskier was Geralt’s first. No amount of yearning, no amount of misery or gritted teeth from Eskel would change that. 

He thought he could bear it. He had before, for decades. But that was before he knew what touch could be. What _intimacy_ could be. That was before Jaskier wormed his way into Eskel’s bedroll and seared a brand onto his heart with soft words and scorching hands. Alone in his room, cold despite the fire, Eskel could feel the pull, feel the _ache_ to go to Jaskier, but he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t. And then… 

Jaskier bursts into the hall, bringing with him a gust of cold air and an armload of stuff. He flops down next to Geralt again, allowing two of the bags he carries to clatter against the table but setting down the last item carefully. Jaskier grins and pushes it across the table to Eskel. 

It’s a black, curved container with two brass clasps on one side. Eskel recognizes it instantly. "Why?" he asks, the question a pale echo of the first time he asked Jaskier why, in a room so far away from here.

“It’s for you.” Jaskier waves a hand at him impatiently. “Go on, open it.”

Eskel flicks the clasps open and lifts the lid. Inside is a lute. He picks it up slowly, gingerly, as if it’s an animal he might startle away. The instrument is a simple dark blue, its lines clean and without ornament- with a wide neck and strings spaced far enough apart for him to fit his fingers over them easily. It’s slightly larger than the average lute, as if it were crafted specifically to be played by a larger man.

In the stunned silence that follows, Lambert speaks up. “I didn’t know you played.”

Eskel turns the lute over in his hands with wonder. “I don’t, much,” he says, “but-“

“ _But_ ,” Jaskier interjects, “you have all winter to pick it up again. And you’re just lucky enough to be stuck on the side of a mountain with the single best lute player on the _continent_ , so I’m certain you’ll be a master in no time.”

Words crowd up his throat, twisting into a ball that makes it hard to breathe, much less speak. It has been so long since someone gave Eskel a gift like this. A gift that isn’t a weapon or a piece of armor. It’s frivolous, and a little bit silly, and Eskel decides in that moment that he will spend every day playing the damn thing if it makes Jaskier smile like he is right now.

“Thank you,” he says gruffly. He means to say much more than that, but the words won’t come out. From the glow in Jaskier’s eyes, Eskel knows he understands. 

“You’re welcome.”

Jaskier unloads the other bags with enthusiasm. There is a stack of books in Elvish for Lambert. A jacket for Geralt with tiny hints of embroidery the same silver as his hair. Oils in non-offensive smells for baths in the hot spring, and a pile of sweets that Eskel is sure are there for Jaskier’s own tastes instead of any sort of altruism. 

Geralt smirks a little when he sees the sweets. “I told you we have food here.”

“Look me in the eyes, Geralt, and tell me the witchers of Kaer Morhen have a stockpile of expensive, nutritionless candy lying around somewhere.” When no such assurance is forthcoming, Jaskier scoffs. “That’s what I thought.”

With everything distributed, the only item that remains on the table is a small satin bag. Jaskier tugs it open cautiously, and the sharp scent of nervousness works its way into the air. 

“I wasn’t sure if- well, I’m still not sure, and obviously I don’t have any _expectations_ or anything ridiculous like that, but-“ Jaskier tips the contents of the bag into his hand and closes his fist, shutting his eyes as he centers himself. “I thought it would be convenient if we had some way to communicate. Besides the mages’ notes, which I have noticed, thank you, because none of you idiots are all that subtle about sending them.”

Eskel feels a little abashed. He and the others did send notes whenever one of them left Jaskier- mostly to make sure he wouldn’t be left unprotected for long. It must have been too much to ask that Jaskier not catch on. He’s remarkably observant under all the jokes and silk doublets. 

“Anyway,” Jaskier continues, “I hope I’m not being too presumptuous. And I promise not to be too annoying, or anything-“

“Jaskier,” Eskel says. “Just show us.”

He nods sharply. “Right, sure. Fine.” Jaskier’s fist opens to reveal a tangle of chains and flashing metal. They ring like bells as he drops them on the table, sorting through the pile before pushing a single chain towards each witcher. 

Eskel picks his up to turn it over in the firelight. The links are simple, yet sturdy. From the chain hangs a pendant crafted to look like a bird in flight. Magic radiates from the bird in waves. 

“These are _powerful_ , Jaskier.” Lambert’s voice is awed. “What do they do?”

_If the mage I got them from can be believed, they will allow us to speak even if we aren’t together. Across any distance, she said._

It’s Jaskier’s voice, but the words aren’t spoken aloud. They’re in Eskel’s mind- carried through the pendant in Jaskier’s hand to the one in Eskel’s, echoing through him like a physical presence. The witchers turn to their bard in shock.

“Like I said, none of you have to use them…”

Eskel tunes out Jaskier’s nervous rambling, choosing instead to drop the chain over his head and settle the swooping bird next to the wolf pendant that sits over his heart. Next to him, his brothers do the same. The cold metal warms quickly against his skin. 

_I like it,_ he thinks. The message must go through, because Jaskier shuts his mouth with a plop and shoots Eskel a tentative smile. 

“Clever,” Geralt murmurs. Lambert nods his agreement, looking overwhelmed. 

Eskel raises a hand to touch the bird through his shirt. Jaskier’s gift is practical, yes, but it is more than that. It’s a claim. The chains around their necks are a declaration of loyalty- not just the witchers’, but Jaskier’s too, their twin pendants a wordless announcement that they are bound together by _choice._ Across any distance.

At this time last winter, Eskel would have laughed off any man stupid enough to believe that a human would willingly bind themselves to a group of witchers. The very thought would have been ridiculous. Now, though, he watches Jaskier tease his brothers, making jokes and hurling insults down the magic that connects them, and his uncertainty crumbles to dust. Jaskier chose them. They chose him in return. 

Lambert drags two proper mattresses into the room they’ve commandeered, replacing the old pallet with something more comfortable. The awkwardness from the previous night is gone. Sighs of contentment replace it as they settle down to sleep, limbs tangled together beneath thick wool blankets. Moonlight glints on the steel at their throats; three wolves with their bard tucked safely between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and thanks to all the people who left sweet words/ideas in the comments! Y'all are some mind readers, I swear, and it always makes me so happy to read your reactions ;)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This chapter is a little longer, so it took a while. I hope you guys enjoy!

Their days fall into a rhythm. The witchers rise at dawn to train- sparring and reviewing techniques under Vesemir’s expert eye. Jaskier joins them for a late breakfast and teaches Eskel lute for a while, the two of them sitting knee to knee as Jaskier demonstrates chords and Eskel does his best to follow along. They never manage to focus for long before Lambert distracts them with something from his endless repertoire of _filthy_ sea shanties. 

The afternoons vary. Jaskier often excuses himself to go work on songs. There is a large window on one of the upper floors with a just wide enough for a bard and his lute. He likes to sit there as he composes, looking past the glass to the mountain below. 

Geralt finds him there some days, sweaty from sparring, his skin glowing in the afternoon light. Jaskier loves when he gets like that- unrestrained and wanting. The gleam in his yellow eyes spells trouble of the most delicious kind and, well, it’s no coincidence that Jaskier’s window of choice isn’t far from their bedroom. 

Evenings are for dinner and alcohol. Witchers can’t really get drunk, at least not on wine and ale, so Jaskier does his best to pace himself. It wouldn’t do to be drunk when all his friends begin to spill their stories. 

Oh, the stories they tell. Most are exciting. They’re tales of monsters and maidens- Jaskier’s bread and butter. Vesemir, he is delighted to learn, is the best storyteller of them all. Not only has he seen nearly everything, but he also does not hesitate to add details or embellish with description where Geralt and his brothers tend to be tighter lipped. Things between Jaskier and Vesemir are strained outside of these quiet evenings. He learns to see the stories as gifts. Not quite an olive branch, not yet, but more than Jaskier expected so soon. 

Other nights are heavier. The witchers speak of lost comrades. Monsters slain a few moments too late. Potions that burn like fire in their veins. Innkeeps and aldermen whose faces turn hard at the sight of steel and silver swords. Jaskier knows that nothing he says can fix these things. That no matter how long he travels with Geralt, no matter how much he witnesses, it will never truly be the same for him. On these nights, all Jaskier can do is raise his glass with the others and _listen._

And if Jaskier holds them tighter than usual? If he curls up like he wants to disappear under their skin and touches like he wants to give all he is to these men who have already given themselves to the world?

If he does those things, his bedmates never mention it. 

They only settle closer.

…

Vesemir’s wooden practice sword slams against Geralt’s knee, sending him sprawling. The sword is leveled at his throat an instant later, announcing the end of their third sparring match of the morning. Geralt nods in defeat and rights himself.

The day has not yet dawned. His brothers are still in bed with Jaskier, but Vesemir had caught Geralt’s eye during dinner the previous night, a silent order to rise before the others did. There is a conversation to be had, and now, circling each other as their fourth match begins, Geralt knows the time has come. 

“You reek of magic.”

Geralt tugs at the chain around his neck in answer, flicking the metal songbird free from his shirt. Vesemir’s eyes narrow at the sight of it. He lunges. It’s a testing move, and one that Geralt blocks easily, but the force of his blow is stronger than any from their first three matches. 

Vesemir returns to his side of the sparring ring. Neither man wears shoes, nor armor. They are bare and vulnerable in the darkness before dawn. Two warriors, facing each other unprotected. The blows that land will leave bruises in their wake. 

Three quick steps and a feint take Geralt to Vesemir’s side. His blow is blocked with the clack of wood on wood. He spins away to avoid a counter strike and Vesemir follows him, sword lashing out in a move too fast for the human eye to follow. Geralt deflects it with a flick of his wrist. 

“He has shackled you,” Vesemir spits. Geralt ducks his next swing and jabs with his own weapon, unsurprised when the blow does not land. 

“He has marked what belongs to him. I welcome it.”

A hollow sound rings out as their swords meet again. Vesemir pulls back and swings a split second before Geralt. His blunted weapon grazes Geralt’s thigh as he darts away. “We belong to the Path,” he admonishes. “To silver and steel. To the hunt.” Vesemir is a blur as he charges, executing a complex pattern of footwork that sets Geralt on the defensive. Their breaths come fast. “You do not belong in the arms of a human.”

Geralt snarls and launches off his back foot. He sweeps his sword in an arc towards Vesemir’s throat that the older witcher barely manages to block. Their weapons creak from strain. “Do not tell me where I belong.”

“We live on the Path. Your bard will make you slow. He will get you killed.”

“We _survive_ on the Path,” Geralt corrects. “We do precious little _living.”_ He attacks again, this time striking Vesemir’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. “And I have not slowed. Not after fourteen years.”

Shock causes Vesemir to falter. His sword drops slightly and Geralt presses his advantage, sliding his weapon past his mentor’s defenses and knocking the air from his lungs. With real swords, it would be a killing blow. 

“Fourteen years?” Vesemir demands. He shuffles backward to put some distance between them. “You’ve been traveling with this bard for _fourteen years?”_ Incredulity colors his voice. “Why?”

Geralt watches him with a cautious eye. His weapon may have lowered, but the fight is not yet over. “You raised us to fight. Taught us to kill.” Geralt swings his sword in a circle, handling it with confidence born of endless practice. Even after all this time, his fingers are more comfortable on a sword hilt than trailing over Jaskier’s skin. More practiced with violence than tenderness. “Slaughtering monsters for coin until the locals drive us out, too afraid to look a witcher in the eye. Is that the life you would choose for us?” He spits on the ground between them, rage like black blood in his veins. “It’s fucking _miserable.”_

“It’s all we have,” Vesemir says. The sword at his side is all but forgotten. 

“It doesn’t need to be.”

“You want more.” An accusation. Horror in his tone, as though happiness is something to fear. And perhaps, after so long with only anger and loneliness, it is. 

Geralt touches the pendant on his chest. Frigid air tugs at his skin, but he is warm with memories of Jaskier’s arms around him. “I have more.”

The weapon slides from Vesemir’s hands. It clatters on the cobblestones at his feet. “Fourteen years, and still you choose him?”

“Every day.”

“He _will_ put you in danger someday, Geralt. What happens when the choice is your bard or your life?”

Geralt looks past his mentor to where yellow streaks the horizon, summoning forth the day. He has thought of this possibility more times than he can count. In the early days, perhaps it was a question. Now the answer is a foregone conclusion, as constant and certain as the dawn that creeps over the mountain. 

“Then I die.” Geralt throws down his sword and meets Vesemir’s glare with one of his own. “And he lives. It is no choice. Not for me.”

Vesemir takes him in. The certainty in his posture and the life in his limbs, battle hardened and strong. No slower than he was in decades past. No weaker for his vulnerability, or for his desires. Geralt is every inch the warrior his mentor shaped, but his face no longer bears the silver lines of endurance, scars from a life of violence and rejection. Those lines were worn away by tender fingertips; lips and hands trailing along the broken parts of Geralt until he melted and reformed beneath them. 

Laughter echoes to them from the castle- the sound of his brothers waking. Vesemir’s gaze does not waver. He nods, just once. 

Geralt has said his piece, stunted though his words were. Vesemir will take them or not, but Geralt knows a change has begun. He can see it stirring in Vesemir’s eyes.

The rest is up to Jaskier.

…

Hunger drives Jaskier from his windowsill. Dinner is a few hours away, so he shuffles down to the kitchen in search of food. Vesemir is there when he arrives, looking strangely unguarded in the firelight.

“Sorry,” Jaskier says. “I didn’t know you were in here. I came down for a snack, but I can-“ He makes for the door, ready to bolt before a gruff voice stops him. 

“Stay.” 

Jaskier stays. He grabs a hunk of bread and sits down to watch Vesemir cook. There’s a mound of vegetables on the counter, enough to feed a small army. Or four witchers, Jaskier thinks. Vesemir slides him a block of wood and a knife. “I’m assuming you know how to cook?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Nothing fancy, but I can chop potatoes.”

Vesemir grunts and returns to his own work. His knife beats out a constant rhythm. Three cuts one way, three the other, and a slide as he scrapes the chunks of vegetable into a nearby pot. Jaskier does his best to match the pace, standing at the counter in silence. Vesemir looks at him from time to time. His eyes burn on Jaskier’s skin, but he keeps his own gaze focused downward. That’s another trick he learned from Geralt- let the witcher come to you. It doesn’t take long. 

“Cooking.”

“I, um- what?” Jaskier sputters. 

“Cooking brings me joy.” Vesemir pauses in his chopping to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “And having them here.” He gestures vaguely behind them at the main hall where Geralt and his brothers are entrenched in a game of Gwent. “Knowing they’re…safe. At least for the winter.”

“Oh.” Jaskier’s stomach goes warm and soupy at the admission. He recognizes the peace offering for what it is, and he can’t keep the smile off his face. “I like knowing they’re safe, too. I _need_ to know they’re safe, actually. It’s kind of hard to breathe if they aren’t.” He lets out a soft, pained laugh. “I’ve seen Geralt covered in his own blood too many times, and Eskel with the noonwraith that one time, and Lambert got those scratches a few months ago-“ Jaskier sets down his knife and holds his hands down against the counter to keep them from shaking. 

“That is the life of a witcher,” Vesemir says gently. 

“I know. I know. I-“ He heaves in a breath. “It’s good that they have this place. You. Winter is my favorite time of year, no matter how fucking cold it gets, because I know they’ll be here, with you and each other. I trust you to watch their backs, even if I’m not there.”

Vesemir snorts. “Are you implying that _you_ protect _them_ , bard? I find that difficult to believe.”

“Believe what you will,” Jaskier says. “It’s true regardless. I may not be a fighter, but I can be there when it’s over. To make sure they eat and bathe like real people. To hold them together, if they need me to. And sometimes when they don’t.” He flashes Vesemir a smile and tries for a lighter tone. “I’m pretty decent with medicine by now, too.” Brandishing his knife in a joking threat, Jaskier leans in and whispers, “You _cannot_ tell Geralt this, but I actually studied medicine a little while he was here last winter. Told him I was playing in taverns down the mountain and shacked up with a healer instead. Lovely old lady, quite good at knitting. She talked my ear off about tinctures and salves and stitches and the like- I filled a whole notebook.” 

He returns to chopping, humming as he goes, heedless of the new respect that shows on Vesemir’s face. “Came in handy with that sea monster thing in Skellige, let me tell you. I mean, I love the man, but he has _no_ sense of self-preservation.”

Vesemir nods and grunts in the right places, letting Jaskier chatter away until dinner is ready. They’re met with cheers when they march into the hall carrying a pot of stew. Lambert recalls all the ways Eskel cheated at Gwent, but seeing as no swords were drawn, Jaskier decides it can’t have been that bad. He fills his bowl while they talk, and when he sits down to eat, Vesemir sits beside him.

…

Lambert sighs and leans back until his shoulders sink beneath the water. This time last year, he was scheming to convince Geralt to speak about his bard. Now that bard is next to him in the hot spring, smelling of sweet contentment. He wants to bury his nose in it.

Heat winds its way through his body. A slow spread of realization. He _can_ bury his nose in that smell, if he wants. 

Water ripples around him as he slides to Jaskier’s side. Slender hands are working soap into his hair, but he drops them immediately when Lambert reaches out for him. Lambert tucks his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, inhaling. Arms come up to hold him, warm even in the heat of the water, amusement clear in Jaskier’s touch. 

“What do I smell like?” 

“Sunshine,” he answers honestly. “And honey. It’s nice.”

Jaskier lets out a chuckle that Lambert can feel in his chest. “That’s good. I haven’t been covered in anything worse than sweat recently, but I figured using the oils couldn’t hurt.” 

Lambert shakes his head. “Not the oils. Just you.”

“Oh.” Jaskier falls silent, but the smells of contentment spike in Lambert’s nose. What he did to deserve this he doesn’t know. There is little room for tenderness in a witcher’s life. Geralt should have scared Jaskier off years ago. And yet. Here they are. 

“Let me,” he mumbles, lips dragging against wet skin. Jaskier hums in question and Lambert pulls away to tug on a strand of his half washed hair. “You always do mine.”

The smile on Jaskier’s face is languid. Pleased. It settles deep in Lambert’s bones like a brand. “Alright,” he says, voice pitched low and soft to match the water around them. 

Lambert leans against the wall of the hot spring and tugs Jaskier against his chest. He finishes the lather Jaskier had started, taking care not to let any soap drip into his eyes. Jaskier dunks to rid his head of the soap and Lambert reaches for a vial of oil from his pack. Lavender. Jaskier never said it was his favorite, but it’s the one he replenishes most often, so Lambert figures it a safe bet. From the happy surprise in Jaskier’s eyes, he figured right. 

He tips the oil into his palm and threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. He’s never done this for someone before. Lambert used to worry that it was work for Jaskier to help him bathe, unpleasant somehow to wash dirt away from another person’s skin. But with Jaskier pliant and relaxed beneath his hands, Lambert begins to understand. It is not a hardship to take care of someone he loves. 

His hands still. _Someone he loves._ Lambert never thought he would have cause to think that phrase. He loves his brothers, of course, but it is a hard, battle-worn love. They do not speak of it aloud. This love, for Jaskier, is different. It’s no more sexual than what he feels for Geralt and Eskel, but it is _raw._ Jaskier has cut his heart from his chest with a knife so smooth and gentle that Lambert did not notice its sting until he began to bleed. 

“Lambert? What’s wrong?”

Emotion rises in him like the tide. Steady, and strong. Powerful enough to drown an empire. He shakes with the force of it. 

“Lambert?” Jaskier tries to turn, but Lambert holds him still. He slides a hand up Jaskier’s side and settles it against his chest to feel the heartbeat there. 

“I love you,” he whispers. Once the words are brought to light, there is no revoking them. He lays them at Jaskier’s feet as uncertainty crashes over his head, threatening to pull him under. “Is that alright?”

Now Jaskier does turn, Lambert’s arms not enough to hold him back. He brings his hands up to cradle Lambert’s face and presses their foreheads together. It’s a small mercy. If Lambert had to look him in the eyes right now, he thinks he would break apart.

“Of course it’s alright,” Jaskier whispers. There is pain in his voice and Lambert _hates_ it. Hates that his own emotional ineptitude is what put it there. “Of course it’s alright, Lambert,” he repeats. “It’s more than alright.” Jaskier’s shoulder blades move beneath Lambert’s hands as he drags his palms down Lambert’s neck, catching on the chain that hangs there. He has not taken it off since the night Jaskier gave it to him. “I love you too, you silly witcher. More than my own blood.”

He can feel the truth of it. Jaskier’s love is a wave as strong as Lambert’s, crashing against his own and leaving calmer waters in its wake. 

They stay close for the rest of the night. Jaskier keeps a hand on his knee at dinner, as if he can sense how close Lambert is to crumbling. One sharp tap is all it would take to make him fall, but Jaskier stands in front of him, holding the weight of the world as Lambert pieces himself back together. 

Geralt seems to understand. He catches Lambert’s eye over dinner and nods to where Jaskier is touching him. There is no judgment in the look. Lambert may love Jaskier differently than Geralt does, but the vulnerability is the same. Geralt has felt the sweet kiss of Jaskier’s blade. He has allowed it to remake him. 

Lambert doesn’t understand what he did to deserve this love. But as the tide rises with each familiar swipe of Jaskier’s fingers over his skin, he knows one thing. 

He will burn the world to protect it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have gotten so much love and so many cool prompts in the comments! You guys are amazing. Please feel free to leave any rants or story ideas below- I adore reading what you guys think, and I'm keeping a google doc of ideas for when I'm done with this main fic!


	12. Chapter 12

Geralt’s world comes crashing down at lunch. It ends in five words, spoken by Eskel’s low voice. Jaskier is in the kitchen with Vesemir. Geralt isn’t sure what he’d missed, but the two of them cook together nearly every meal now. Five words. That’s all it takes.

“He’s going to die someday.”

Lambert’s fork clatters against his plate. “Shut up, Eskel.”

“But he will.” Eskel is sitting on the floor, watching the fire. He’s stiff as a board. “Us not talking about it won’t stop that. He’ll die either way.”

Geralt lets out a low growl. He has spent fourteen years pointedly not thinking about Jaskier’s mortality. His death is inevitable, yes, but the pain of dwelling on it is avoidable. And as Jaskier is so fond of pointing out, Geralt is a master of avoidance. 

“We have time,” Lambert whispers. 

“Do we?” Eskel finally turns from the fire to meet his brothers’ eyes. “Humans slow down before they die. He won’t be able to travel at some point, sooner rather than later if he keeps running towards danger like an idiot and ends up injured. Soon enough he won’t be able to make it up the mountain, and then we lose our winters with him, too. He’ll be gone from our lives long before he actually dies.”

“Stop,” Geralt snarls. “Fucking stop.”

“You don’t want to talk about it because you know I’m right.”

“Shut up!” Lambert is on his feet, eyes blazing. “You _bastard._ Why now? Why can’t you just be happy with what you have?”

Eskel pulls a twig from the kindling pile near the fireplace and feeds it to the flames. He speaks through a throat of broken glass. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Dreamt about it last night and now…” He trails off and stands, brushing dust off the back of his pants. His face is closed off and angry. At destiny. At mortality. Geralt knows the look well. “Figured if I had to suffer, you two might as well join me.”

“Fuck you,” Geralt says. He’s about to say more when a bright voice calls from the hallway that leads to the kitchen. 

“Geralt! You’ll never believe what-“ Jaskier rounds the corner with bounce in his step, but pulls up short when he sees the witchers around the fire. The smile falls from his face, replaced by a look of worry. “What’s wrong?”

Damn him. Geralt usually enjoys Jaskier’s ability to read his expressions. It helped in the early days of their relationship, when he was even worse with words than he is now, and it helps every day on the road because Jaskier can tell what he needs before he asks, can tell is he’s about to snap a few seconds before it actually happens. But sometimes, it’s terrifying not being able to hide. Thinking about Jaskier’s death shoots pain through his veins worse than any potion, and Jaskier can see it written all over his face. 

“Nothing,” he grunts. It’s a bald faced lie, and everyone in the room knows it.

“Okay,” Jaskier says. He glances at Lambert and Eskel, then back at Geralt. _Tell me later?_

Geralt had forgotten about the pendants. About Jaskier’s direct, silent line of communication straight to his head. It’s disconcerting to hear at all, and the situation is only made worse by the fact that Geralt will _not_ be telling him later. It’s not Lambert and Eskel’s presence that is making him tight lipped. This is a topic that Jaskier doesn’t need to hear about in front of anyone. Ever. Geralt grunts again in response, answering nothing, and does his best to ignore Jaskier’s crestfallen expression. 

“I’m going hunting,” Lambert says. He grabs a bow and arrow from the wall and strides out of the room without so much as a glance in Jaskier’s direction. His unfinished meal is still steaming when the doors close behind him. 

Something dark curls into Jaskier’s scent. The burnt sugar smell of confusion and hurt. It sets Geralt on edge. 

“Ignore him. What did you want to tell us about?”

Jaskier shakes his head and tucks himself under Geralt’s arm. “Nothing, really. Don’t worry about it.” 

Geralt wants to push, but the hurt is disappearing from his scent with every passing second, so he keeps his mouth shut. He wants to ask Jaskier to tell a story. Anything. Just so Geralt can focus on his voice instead of the images of Jaskier’s body that filter past his eyes, broken and bleeding and old. He wants to ask but he knows he can’t, because a request like that would set off Jaskier’s “something is wrong” alarm before Geralt could finish forming the words. He settles for pulling Jaskier closer instead, his quick, human heartbeat a blessed rush in Geralt's ears.

…

Jaskier knows what people think of him. He’s ditzy and loud, yes. He wears impractical clothes, and he’s not cautious enough around monsters, and, before Geralt, he slept with _a lot_ of people he should not have slept with. He’ll admit that to anyone. Brag about it, actually. But silly as he might be, no one is fool enough to call him unobservant.

Which is why Jaskier knows that something is very, very wrong. 

Lambert storming out of lunch was first. Then it was Eskel turning down their usual lute lesson, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes as he made up some excuse about needing a bath. Alone. Geralt is quieter than normal, which is impressive for a man so stoic, and when they make love in the afternoon he’s _gentle._ And not, _I love you so much I want to fuck you slowly,_ gentle. It’s more a, _I’m worried one of us is going to break if I fuck you properly,_ kind of gentle. That kind of love making is reserved for one of their frequent near-death experiences. It has no place here, at Kaer Morhen, where they’re supposed to be _safe._

As near as Jaskier can tell, nothing has changed. No monsters, no mages, no destiny mucking about in their lives. It was a perfectly normal morning until it suddenly, painfully _wasn’t._

He thought he could deal with it. Let them fight it off, or drink it away in the evening, and wake up the next morning in the blissful state of relaxation that came from having three very warm, very cuddly bedmates. His witchers would come back to him, when they worked through whatever was wrong. That’s what he told himself. 

Then they stopped touching him. 

Not entirely. Not enough for him to call them on. Little things, like Eskel leaning away from a touch to his bicep. Lambert doesn’t drape an arm around Jaskier at dinner. Geralt accepts Jaskier’s hands in his hair, but he stops reaching out in return. No bumps of shoulders in the halls. No hands at his waist when he passes around tankards of ale. No fingers in on his skin, or lips against his neck, or thighs pressed hard against his own. 

Nothing. 

For the first time in months, Jaskier goes to sleep cold.

…

It has been a while since Eskel felt this detached. Since the craving for touch and connection prickled underneath his skin. He hurts in a way he hasn’t since he met Jaskier.

And he’s right there. All dusky hair and smiles that aren’t quite as shining as they were a week ago. Right there. Just out of reach because every time he reaches out the sweet relief of touch is swept away by the screaming, burning horror of his own hateful voice. 

_He’s going to die someday_

His dream still plagues him. Jaskier, torn apart by a werewolf. Jaskier, scarred and scratched from years on the road. Jaskier, slamming against a tree in a forest and not getting up again. No matter how loud Eskel screams, he never gets up again. 

So, as much as he can manage, he doesn’t touch. They still sleep in the same bed, Jaskier would ask too many questions if they didn’t, but he doesn’t curl as close. He doesn’t bury his face in Jaskier’s hair. He _aches._

Funny, how he’d forgotten what that felt like.

…

A week after Eskel’s announcement by the fireplace, frustration is a thundercloud over Kaer Morhen. Vesemir retires early, citing exhaustion from hunting a deer for their dinner. Geralt knows the real reason is that he can’t stand the oppressive scent of sadness that hangs around the main hall. A minute after Vesemir disappears, Jaskier stands up and slams his hand down on the table.

“Enough.” His voice shakes, anger and pain swirling in his scent, and a hot rush of guilt sweeps down Geralt’s spine. “I’m done being miserable, I’m done dealing with you all avoiding me, and I am especially, absolutely fucking _done_ with the lies.” 

“Jaskier-“ Lambert tries. 

“No. Nope. I don’t want to hear it. All three of you have been lying through your teeth for the last week that nothing is wrong when something is very clearly _terrible_ , so someone better speak the fuck up. The truth, this time.” 

“Or what?” Eskel asks, fear turning his words sharp. “You’ll write a nasty song about us?”

Jaskier turns on him, hurt dull in his eyes, and Eskel makes a sound like he’s been slapped. “No, actually. I haven’t worked so hard to build up witchers’ reputations just to tear it all down. But I will go sleep somewhere else, since you all clearly can’t stand being around me anymore.”

Eskel nearly shatters the tankard in his hand. “That’s not what this is about,” he says firmly. 

“Oh, it’s not?” Jaskier throws his arms wide and lets out a bitter laugh. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re all acting like- like I’m some kind of _monster.”_ He chokes back a sob. In a voice so broken Geralt can barely hear it, he asks, “What did I do?”

That’s it. Geralt is on his feet and at Jaskier’s side, pulling his head against his chest like he can hold this conversation at bay. Just a little longer. “Nothing. I swear to all the gods, Jaskier, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Then _why?”_

Geralt steps away. He can’t help it. Lambert hovers a few feet from them, looking as helpless as Geralt feels, and Eskel’s hands are fists at his sides. Each looks to the other, silently begging them to speak. Eskel is the one who finally makes the leap. 

“Jaskier, you-“ He breaks off to run a shaking hand down his face. “You’re human. We’ve known that for a while, but it finally hit home and we just couldn’t…touch you. Knowing we’re going to lose you.”

Confusion sweeps across Jaskier’s face, his brows lowered and mouth puckered in a way Geralt would have found sweet in any other situation. “What?” A hysterical laugh makes its way out of his throat. “But I’m not-“

Silence. Every muscle in Geralt’s body locks up, blood roaring past his ears in a deafening wave. He stares at Jaskier, uncomprehending. “You’re not what, Jaskier?”

A new smell twists in the air. Acrid and burning. Fetid as a day old corpse. Geralt has never smelled it on Jaskier before, not like this. Not aimed at him. 

Jaskier steps away, shaking. “I thought you _knew.”_

Geralt is struck dumb by the scent rolling off of him. It slips down Geralt’s throat and chokes him. He can’t talk. Can barely think through the haze of fear dripping from Jaskier’s pores. 

“You’re not human,” Eskel says. Wonder shines through in his voice, but Jaskier is too far gone to hear it. He keeps backing away, hands curled against his chest in a protective gesture that grabs what’s left of Geralt’s sanity and shatters it. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers. “I didn’t mean to- I thought-“

He turns on his heel and Geralt’s soul screams at him to move, to run, to go to Jaskier and hold him tight and never let him go, but his feet are rooted to the floor like he’s cursed as Jaskier retreats, the smell of fear around him thicker than ever. 

Lambert snaps out of it first. He chokes on Jaskier’s name and then he’s gone, down the hall in a second to bury Jaskier against his chest. His hands are everywhere; running up Jaskier’s arms and smoothing across his back, touching like none of them have in days. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he mutters against Jaskier’s skin. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Please, Jaskier, _please._ I won’t hurt you.”

Geralt can’t get a grip on his thoughts. Of course Lambert would never hurt him. Jaskier knows that. 

_Like I’m some kind of monster._

Jaskier knows they could never lay a finger on him. He must. But the acrid smell is still there, and Jaskier has twisted himself around so he can look at Geralt, body braced against Lambert’s arms like he’s expecting a blow. 

_I thought you knew._

There are parts of him he never meant for Jaskier to see. The dark parts. The monstrous parts. Parts that no human, no matter how foolish, could see and continue to love. But Jaskier is no human, and Geralt has decades to work on letting him in. 

Geralt crosses the distance between them with measured steps. He grasps Jaskier’s hand. Sinks to his knees. Fear like death fills his senses but he pushes it away, focusing on the thread of sunlight beneath it. One tug pulls Jaskier from Lambert’s arms and Geralt rises up to meet him, catching him with a hand around the hip and lowering him to the floor as gently as Geralt can manage. 

“You’re not a monster, Jaskier.”

“I’m not human.”

“Neither am I.” He presses a kiss beneath Jaskier’s ear and tilts his head up. “I should have known,” Geralt murmurs. “The flowers you braid in my hair never wilt.”

Jaskier laughs. He’s still crying a little, so it’s an awkward noise, but it’s a laugh all the same. Damn if that doesn’t twist something in Geralt’s stomach. 

“The flowers, Geralt? Really? We’ve been together for _fourteen years._ ”

“So?”

“So?” Jaskier echoes. Incredulity replaces the tremor in his voice. “Geralt, do I _look_ thirty-two to you?”

Geralt runs his eyes down Jaskier’s face. He hardly looks a day older than when they met in Posada. Certainly not older than twenty. “No,” he says. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to answer, but Eskel beats him to it. 

“You let him braid flowers in your hair?”

And just like that, the moment is broken. Tension disappears from Jaskier’s body entirely and he sinks into Geralt’s arms around him, boneless. Lambert kneels down next to them and lays a hand on Jaskier’s back. Calm floods Geralt’s system as the horrible smell of rot disappears completely, overlaid with honey wine and citrus as Jaskier dissolves into a fit of relieved laughter. 

“You would let him do the same,” Geralt shoots back. 

Eskel sits beside Jaskier and sinks a hand into his hair, rubbing in little circles as he shrugs. “Yes. I would.” 

They stay like that until Geralt’s knees ache from the strain. He picks up a protesting Jaskier and brings him to the fire, settling down with his legs crossed and his bard held firmly in his lap. Eskel grabs his lute and plays them a few simple tunes until Jaskier relaxes enough to speak up. 

“Aren’t you going to ask? What I am?”

Lambert’s hand traces patterns over his knee. “Would you like to tell us?”

“Wood-elf,” Jaskier offers. “A quarter, on my mom’s side. It’s no good for much beyond growing plants a little better than average. And immortality, I guess, though I wasn’t expecting that one.”

“Good,” Eskel says. “You’ll never be rid of us now.”

…

Vesemir finds them the next morning, still in yesterday’s clothes, curled up in a pile around the embers of the fire. He doesn’t say a word.

…

The rest of winter passes in a haze of good food and better company. When the snow has melted and the Path calls once more, they say their goodbyes. Vesemir claps each witcher on the back before pulling Jaskier into a hug that’s as sweet as it is brief. They head down the mountain together, the wolves and their bard, and when they part at the next town, it is with the knowledge that the separation is not forever.

Vesemir clears out a closet in one of Kaer Morhen’s abandoned hallways. He places Eskel’s lute there, alongside a drawer of Jaskier’s favorite sweets. Other items join them. A coat Lambert left behind. A gold brocade chemise from the floor of an upstairs hallway that smells suspiciously of two men in the throes of passion. Everything they will need when they return is left, carefully folded, in the closet for them to find. Through the heat of summer and decay of autumn. Through days and weeks and months of silence and stillness. The castle waits. 

Vesemir closes the doors that winter. The next time he opens them, a metal bird glints against his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This got way longer than I expected, but I'm pleased with how it turned out. Thank you guys so much for sticking with me during this whole process, and for all the love you guys have sent my way. It truly means the world to me. That said- there will be more! I've been inspired by your comments/prompts to make this a timeline with multiple stories. 
> 
> The first one, which will be a multi-chapter fic (though not as long as this one), is going to be hurt/comfort about Jaskier getting kidnapped and all the hell his witchers rain down on the man fool enough to hurt him. The first chapter of that will be out this weekend, so stay tuned! I've made this fic a series, so you can bookmark the series if you want updates when I write something new. Also, if I use your prompt, I promise to dedicate the fic to you/mention you in the author's notes. 
> 
> That's it! Thanks again for reading, and please feel free to leave thoughts/questions/prompts for the timeline (or prompts unrelated to this fic) in the comments. Love you guys!!


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